Rumours by Freya North

leading on; opening door after door and giving Stella just enough time to walk to the windows and back. ‘Do keep up.’
    â€˜In there?’ Stella motioned to a door they passed that Lydia didn’t open.
    â€˜Slaves.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Don’t say “What”, say “I beg your pardon”,’ Lydia snapped. ‘It’s one of the slaves’ quarters. We don’t have them any more – not even Mrs Biggins. She’s a useless slave because she won’t do a thing I ask. But the house was once full of them.’
    â€˜Staff,’ Stella said, relieved, when she went into the room and realized it was a sizeable store for linen and laundry.
    â€˜The Fortescues have always called them “slaves” – in jest, of course. No one has ever minded,’ said Lydia. She ran her hand lightly over the butler’s sink by the window. ‘At least, no one said they minded.’ She looked around the room. ‘We didn’t call them slaves to their faces – we didn’t say, “Slave! Come here!” The youngsters were called by their first names, which was fairly liberal of the Fortescues. And the senior staff by their surnames. Apart from the housekeeper, who was allowed to keep her title. Hence, Mrs Biggins – though, really, she ought to be called Useless Woman.’
    â€˜I love this,’ said Stella, fingering the embossed brass plate above the three taps. ‘Hot. Cold. Soft.’
    â€˜For rainwater,’ said Lydia. She ran the tap and placed her hand under the water. She kept it there, as if the feel of it hastened a memory just coming back into focus and one that she wanted to revisit. ‘All the children had their hair washed in this sink – rinsed again and again with the water from “Soft”.’
    Corridors that started poker straight and then suddenly veered off at angles with stairs to trip and confuse. Room after room after room. With clever wording in the particulars and positioning of furniture for the photos, Stella reckoned she could list twelve bedrooms at least. The three bathrooms were a worry though, not least because the most modern of them all, the only en-suite, was a homage to 1970s design with a corner bath, bidet, basin and toilet in a dull avocado shade.
    It surprised her to find they were back on the ground floor. She’d quite lost her bearings.
    â€˜Kitchen,’ Lydia said, opening a door and revealing a space so sizeable that even Mrs Biggins, ensconced in the
Daily Mail
, looked diminutive. Stella’s heart sank a little. Of all the rooms she’d been fascinated to see, this was the one she’d built up in her imagination. She’d anticipated flagstones and a vast range, scullery, pantry, cold store, gleaming copperware and all manner of utensils of historical importance. Instead, she stood in a large space in which rather nondescript units varnished an unpleasant amber sat haphazardly under a melamine worktop, like bad teeth. The fridge and the oven were free-standing and akin to those she remembered her grandmother having in her small flat in Wheathampstead. At least there was an Aga, if a relatively small one. It was some consolation finally to be shown a sort of pantry with lines of shelves painted soft white and an impressive run of slate worktop. Most of the shelves were empty; the ones that weren’t were stacked with jars of all sizes filled with jam.
    â€˜I’m tired now so you must go,’ Lady Lydia announced, still walking ahead and not turning to look at Stella. ‘You will come back again tomorrow. To see the grounds. To see Art. Eleven a.m. Prompt, please. Mrs Biggins, show Miss Hutton out please. Goodbye.’
    And with that, Lydia went.
    â€˜Coat,’ said Mrs Biggins, bundling it into Stella’s arms. ‘Ta-ta, duck.’ And she chortled a little as if, perhaps, this was a scenario that had been re-enacted many times over