Death at Dawn - Caro Peacock [65]
‘I thought you’d have gone home to Herefordshire by now,’ I said.
‘No hurry, miss. There’s work for me here if I want it, so I thought I might stay for a bit, see her settled. And it was in my mind I might be seeing you again.’
A voice from the yard called, ‘Amos. Where’s Amos?’
‘I have letters for the post,’ I said. ‘Could you see they go on the next mail coach?’
Blackstone had instructed me to send letters through the owner of the stables, but this was the chance of a little independence. Amos nodded, took both letters from me but gave back Celia’s coins.
‘I’m doing well enough, miss, but what about you?’
‘I’m employed at Mandeville Hall, only they mustn’t know about this.’
‘Amos.’
The call was impatient. Amos picked up the saddle and bridle.
‘You wait here till I come. You’ll be safe enough.’
‘I can’t wait.’
I’d lost track of time, but Betty would surely be getting the children up soon and I’d be missed. Still, one thing was urgent.
‘Rancie must be exercised properly. Isn’t there anybody who can ride her?’
‘I’m too heavy and the lads are feared of her, miss. That’s the third she’s had off.’ ‘It’s because she’s light-mouthed. They’ll kill her spirit if they go on like this. Can you tell them you’ve had word from her owner that nobody should ride her until further instructions?’
He nodded, but looked worried.
‘Needs a lady’s hand, she does.’
I don’t know if he was deliberately putting an idea into my mind.
‘I’ll think of something,’ I said. ‘I’ll be back on …’ I did a quick calculation. In four days there might be an answer to one or both of the letters ‘… on Saturday.’
He nodded and went out to the yard, taking his time. When I glanced out, everybody in the yard seemed to be occupied, so I slipped past them without anybody noticing and out of the gates.
‘You look feverish,’ Betty said. ‘Did you sleep badly?’
She’d been kinder than I deserved, getting the children up and dressed, taking them for their walk before breakfast. I’d almost bumped into them on my way back from the flower garden where I’d put a clove carnation on the rustic seat for Celia to find. I’d had to hide behind the beech hedge then rush up the back stairs to wash and tidy myself. By the time they came back to the schoolroom, I was tolerably neat in my blue-and-white print dress and muslin tucker, reading from the Gallic Wars.
‘She’s wearing rose-water,’ Henrietta said, sniffing.
Observant little beast. The maids had taken most of the water as usual, and there had only been enough left for a superficial wash, not enough to abolish the lingering smell of stables.
‘It smells just like my rose-water.’
It was. Desperate, I’d gone into her room and sprayed myself from the bottle on her white-and-gilt dressing table. What do nine-year-old girls need with rose-water in any case? It marked the start of a difficult day in the schoolroom. The children were short of sleep and sullen, still shaken by their father’s anger the evening before. I could hardly keep my eyes open, let alone summon up any interest in Julius Caesar or multiplication in pounds, shillings and pence. Towards the end of the morning, when we’d moved on to French conversation, Mrs Beedle paid us a visit of inspection. She sat listening for a while, very stern and upright, but from the thoughtful way she looked at her grandchildren I guessed she was trying to tell if they were affected by what had happened. What was more alarming was that I caught her looking at me with a puzzled frown, nostrils flaring. She’d certainly noticed the rose-water and probably guessed where it came from, but had she caught a whiff of horse as well?
‘Miss Lock, I am concerned …’ she said, and paused.
‘Concerned, ma’am?’
‘… that you are teaching Henrietta the wrong kind of French.’
I tried not to show my relief.
‘I hope not, ma’am. Her accent has improved quite remarkably in a few days.’
It was my one pedagogic achievement. The