Death at Dawn - Caro Peacock [68]
I was nettled at her refusal to consider any problem but her own.
‘I’m sure Philip will reply by return of post. I told him to write care of the stables. It should be there by Friday or Saturday at the latest.’
‘Is a love letter so important that I must risk dismissal for it?’
She sat down heavily on Henrietta’s blue chair.
‘It’s more than that. I wish … oh, I must trust you. I’ve asked him something. I need his answer.’ She looked down at the map of India, picked up my pencil and turned it over and over in her fingers. ‘I’ve asked him to elope with me.’
‘Doesn’t the suggestion usually come from the gentleman?’
‘I’m certain Philip would suggest it if he knew. But he can’t know until he reads my letter. You see, somebody’s coming soon and I want Philip to take me away and marry me before he arrives.’
‘This other person, is he the one your stepfather wants you to marry?’
She nodded.
‘When is he arriving?’
‘I don’t know. He’s expected any day.’
‘But your stepfather surely can’t have you married against your wishes, the moment this person sets foot in the house.’
‘It would be so much safer in every way if I weren’t here.’
I supposed she was referring to Sir Herbert’s violent temper. I felt sorry for her, but wished she hadn’t planted her burden on my doorstep.
‘Your stepfather said something surprising to Henrietta this evening,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘He wished she were ten years older.’
‘I wish to heaven she were.’ It burst out of her, vehement and unguarded. ‘When did he say it?’
I told her about Princess Charlotte’s portrait and the rest. All the time she stared at me, as if every word mattered. I hoped at the end of it that she’d tell me why it concerned her so much, but she just heaved a sigh nearly as deep as Rancie’s.
‘So what are we to do about your letter?’ I said.
Whatever happened, I must keep open a way of communicating with Blackstone.
‘I was hoping you’d think of something,’ she said.
‘You know the ways of the household better than I do.’
She stared down at her silk-stockinged ankles, looking so lost that I pitied her in spite of my annoyance.
‘If I can think of something, will you do it, Elizabeth?’
‘If you can, yes.’
She got up slowly, and took a few steps to the door, as if reluctant to leave the sanctuary of the schoolroom. At the door she turned round.
‘Don’t fail me. You’re my only hope.’
‘I’m my only hope as well,’ I said, but she was gone by then.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The next few days were almost calm, probably because Sir Herbert was away in London. I gathered that from Betty, who picked up most of the gossip from the other servants. I say ‘almost calm’ because even I was aware that the staff were having to work harder than ever. Whenever we left the snug little world of the nursery corridor, maids were flying in all directions, cleaning rooms, carrying armfuls of linen, washing the paint-work round doors and windows. Betty’s friend Sally reported that the kitchens were worse than Bedlam. Whenever I saw Mrs Quivering she had a worried frown on her face and two or three lists in her hand. Even the gardens, usually a peaceful refuge, seemed to have caught the panic, with a dozen men trimming lawn edges and clipping box hedges so precisely that we could have used them for illustrations in geometry. Relays of boys trotted from vegetable gardens to the back door of the kitchens with baskets of carrots, white turnips, new potatoes, radishes, spring onions, salsify, artichokes, great swags of feathery fennel, sage, thyme. The appetite of the house seemed endless, but Betty said this was all just practising. They were making sure they had the new recipes right. As a result, the servants hall was eating better than it had for years, which was one blessing at any rate, if everybody hadn’t been too harassed to enjoy it.
‘But what are they celebrating?’ I asked Betty.
She shrugged. Sir Herbert was a law unto himself. When we took the children down on Friday evening, he was still away. Stephen was there, talking to his sister by the window. They both