The Notorious Lord by Nicola Cornick Page B

emerged, head bent, peering over his glasses at the papers in his hand. His dirty boots left a trail of sand across the stone floor. He narrowly missed colliding with a small rosewood table. Rachel moved it to one side and put her hand on her father’s arm. Sir Arthur jumped.
    ‘Oh! Didn’t see you there, m’dear.’
    ‘No,’ Rachel said. ‘What are you doing inside, Papa? I thought you were down at the dig.’
    ‘Just came up to read this.’ Sir Arthur said, eyes gleaming. ‘Cook told me the post had arrived. The Royal Society Journal has an article by Cory on the Wiltshire barrows. Damned fine piece of writing. His conclusions are all wrong, of course, but can’t dispute that he writes well. Must tellthe boy. He’s a damned fine antiquary, even if he draws the wrong inferences…’ And he wandered out through the front door, the sand dropping from his boots and being trodden underfoot.
    Rachel sighed and went through to the kitchen in search of a brush. Mrs Goodfellow, the cook, was standing at the table chopping carrots and grumbling under her breath in continuous monotone. Rachel smiled at her.
    ‘Good morning, Mrs Goodfellow. Why are you doing the vegetables? What has happened to Kitty this morning?’
    Mrs Goodfellow’s grumpy face had melted into a reluctant smile at the sight of Rachel. She wiped her hands on a cloth and rested them on her broad hips. ‘Good morning, my duck. Kitty’s down at the excavations this morning.’ She snorted. ‘Your mama said they needed help with sorting the pots they’ve dug out, so the next thing I know, Kitty ups and offs down there. Any excuse. She’s got her eye on that man of Lord Newlyn’s, if you ask me.’
    Rachel smiled slightly. Kitty, the kitchen maid, was no slouch when it came to spotting a likely young man, and Cory’s valet, Bradshaw, was a very well set-up lad indeed.
    ‘There’s just me and Rose,’ Mrs Goodfellow continued, nodding at the lumpy housemaid, ‘and she’s kept busy washing the pots your mama is digging out.’ She gave a sudden bellow of laughter, her chins wobbling. ‘Your mama asked if I’d like to help out today, Miss Rachel. Can you see me in a trench? I’d likely sink in the sand and need to be dug out myself!’
    ‘I’m sure that you would do a splendid job, Mrs Goodfellow,’ Rachel said, ‘but we need you here. If my parents persist in borrowing all the servants to help run their excavation, we shall all starve.’
    ‘Wouldn’t catch me down there,’ Mrs Goodfellow said, picking up her chopping knife again and attacking another carrot with gusto. ‘I’ve seen those ghosts, so I have, Miss Rachel, and I’m keeping well away!’

    Rachel frowned. She had come across superstitious servants often on her travels, but would not have placed Mrs Goodfellow as one of them. Her practical common sense had always seemed much like Rachel’s own, leaving no room for fanciful ideas.
    ‘Ghosts, Mrs Goodfellow?’ she said. ‘Surely you don’t believe in such nonsense?’
    ‘Seen them with my own eyes,’ the cook said bluntly, ‘flitting about down there on the mounds in the moonlight.’
    ‘Ghosts flitting about in the moonlight? Have you been having a bedtime tipple, Mrs Goodfellow?’
    Cory Newlyn had come into the kitchen, his hands full of pottery. Bradshaw was following him in with a bucket full of shards. Rachel jumped at the sight of him, then winced as more sandy soil was trampled into the house.
    Mrs Goodfellow beamed at the newcomers. ‘No need for your sauce, my lord! I haven’t touched a drop since my John died. No, and I know what I’ve seen as well. Men with shields and helmets on, just like in the history books.’
    Cory raised his brows. ‘Men with shields? Really? We have just found some bits of Anglo-Saxon pottery, so who knows, you may be right, Mrs Goodfellow.’
    He put the pot gently into the sink and gave the housemaid his heart-shaking smile. ‘I do apologise for bringing you all this extra