not manage, but that she could do nothing about
the situation.
‘Now, about
the desserts . . . ’
They fell to
discussing the arrangements, until the bell rang again.
‘They’ll have
finished with the tea tray,’ said Mrs Beal.
Helena returned to the
drawing-room, and to her surprise she found that Lord Torkrow’s visitors had
gone. Only the used tea cups and the hollows in the furniture showed they had
ever been there.
‘Mrs Reynolds.
Come in.’
The fire had
burnt down low, and its flames created odd patches of light across his body,
throwing one shoulder and one side of his face into relief. His forehead, chin
and cheek were lit brightly, and a gleam of gold was awakened in his eye. He
turned his face to hers, and she wondered why she had never noticed how fine
his cheeks were. They were like the rocks outside, sharp-angled, but with the
stone made smooth by the constant onslaught of the elements.
‘You have been
speaking to Mrs Beal about the ball?’ he asked.
‘Yes, my
lord.’
‘Good. She has
been here for many years, and knows what is required. Your predecessor had
already done much of the work. You will find her notes in the housekeeper’s
room, no doubt. You have spoken to Mrs Willis about finding some more maids?’
‘No, my lord.
I was driven back by the weather. But I managed to send her a note, asking her
to help me find two girls.’
‘You will need
more than two maids if the ball is to go ahead. You had better go and see her
tomorrow, and tell her of the change of plan.’
‘Yes, my
lord.’
He stood
there, saying nothing more, and Helena was conscious of a disturbing atmosphere in the room. It was
as though he was keeping himself on a tight rein, and she felt that if he let
the reins go, the power released would change her life for ever.
He considered
her intently, and then he surprised her by saying: ‘You were in the graveyard
last night.’
Her heart
jumped at the unexpected shift in the conversation. She wondered if he had seen
her, or if someone else had told him.
‘It’s a
strange place for a young woman to be after dark,’ he continued. ‘What were you
doing there?’
‘I went out
for a breath of air,’ she answered. ‘I did not know where I was going. I walked
across the courtyard and then onto the moor.’
‘And just
stumbled across the graveyard?’
She hesitated,
wondering what to say. It would be easier to let him think she had found it by
accident, but she wanted to say something, something that would help him, for
she knew that he had been in pain. And he was still in pain now. She could see
it etched across his face, in the lines around his mouth and by the haunted
look in his eyes.
She heard
herself saying: ‘I was drawn to it by the sound of someone crying.’ He went
pale, but gave no other sign that he had been the person crying by the grave.
She went on: ‘I wanted to comfort them. It is a desolate thing, to cry alone,
in the dark.’
His eyes
locked on to hers and she felt something pass between them. Won’t he tell
me? she wondered, without even knowing what it was she wanted him to say.
She only knew that he had a secret burden, and she felt she could help him, if
he would only let her.
With the
words, she no longer felt like a housekeeper talking to her employer, she felt
like a woman talking to a man. Even so, she was unprepared for his reaction. He
suddenly grasped her hand and, saying: ‘Come with me,’ he pulled her along
behind him, out of the room, up the broad, shallow stairs, so quickly that she
had to run to keep up with him; along the corridor and into the portrait
gallery. Then he let her go.
She looked
about her. A long line of Stormcrows hung on the wall. These were the men who
had built the castle. They were also the men who had given rise to the tales in
the village; superstitious nonsense most likely, arising from nothing more than
the family living in a castle, and coming and going at will. Or so she tried to
reassure
the situation.
‘Now, about
the desserts . . . ’
They fell to
discussing the arrangements, until the bell rang again.
‘They’ll have
finished with the tea tray,’ said Mrs Beal.
Helena returned to the
drawing-room, and to her surprise she found that Lord Torkrow’s visitors had
gone. Only the used tea cups and the hollows in the furniture showed they had
ever been there.
‘Mrs Reynolds.
Come in.’
The fire had
burnt down low, and its flames created odd patches of light across his body,
throwing one shoulder and one side of his face into relief. His forehead, chin
and cheek were lit brightly, and a gleam of gold was awakened in his eye. He
turned his face to hers, and she wondered why she had never noticed how fine
his cheeks were. They were like the rocks outside, sharp-angled, but with the
stone made smooth by the constant onslaught of the elements.
‘You have been
speaking to Mrs Beal about the ball?’ he asked.
‘Yes, my
lord.’
‘Good. She has
been here for many years, and knows what is required. Your predecessor had
already done much of the work. You will find her notes in the housekeeper’s
room, no doubt. You have spoken to Mrs Willis about finding some more maids?’
‘No, my lord.
I was driven back by the weather. But I managed to send her a note, asking her
to help me find two girls.’
‘You will need
more than two maids if the ball is to go ahead. You had better go and see her
tomorrow, and tell her of the change of plan.’
‘Yes, my
lord.’
He stood
there, saying nothing more, and Helena was conscious of a disturbing atmosphere in the room. It was
as though he was keeping himself on a tight rein, and she felt that if he let
the reins go, the power released would change her life for ever.
He considered
her intently, and then he surprised her by saying: ‘You were in the graveyard
last night.’
Her heart
jumped at the unexpected shift in the conversation. She wondered if he had seen
her, or if someone else had told him.
‘It’s a
strange place for a young woman to be after dark,’ he continued. ‘What were you
doing there?’
‘I went out
for a breath of air,’ she answered. ‘I did not know where I was going. I walked
across the courtyard and then onto the moor.’
‘And just
stumbled across the graveyard?’
She hesitated,
wondering what to say. It would be easier to let him think she had found it by
accident, but she wanted to say something, something that would help him, for
she knew that he had been in pain. And he was still in pain now. She could see
it etched across his face, in the lines around his mouth and by the haunted
look in his eyes.
She heard
herself saying: ‘I was drawn to it by the sound of someone crying.’ He went
pale, but gave no other sign that he had been the person crying by the grave.
She went on: ‘I wanted to comfort them. It is a desolate thing, to cry alone,
in the dark.’
His eyes
locked on to hers and she felt something pass between them. Won’t he tell
me? she wondered, without even knowing what it was she wanted him to say.
She only knew that he had a secret burden, and she felt she could help him, if
he would only let her.
With the
words, she no longer felt like a housekeeper talking to her employer, she felt
like a woman talking to a man. Even so, she was unprepared for his reaction. He
suddenly grasped her hand and, saying: ‘Come with me,’ he pulled her along
behind him, out of the room, up the broad, shallow stairs, so quickly that she
had to run to keep up with him; along the corridor and into the portrait
gallery. Then he let her go.
She looked
about her. A long line of Stormcrows hung on the wall. These were the men who
had built the castle. They were also the men who had given rise to the tales in
the village; superstitious nonsense most likely, arising from nothing more than
the family living in a castle, and coming and going at will. Or so she tried to
reassure
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