Page 15 of The Housekeeper's Secret

‘His grave is in the churchyard,’ Abigail offered. ‘“Samuel, Tyger to Sir Aubrey Hyde, Second Baronet Bradfield” it says on the stone. Tourists come and look for it sometimes.’

Just then, a movement ahead caught the corner of Eliza’s eye, a white flash breaking cover from the gloom of the coppice to the right. The horses saw it too; one faltered and tossed its head, making the wagon lurch. There was a beat of air. On the seat opposite, Susan gave a screech and buried her face in her hands as the bird swooped silently across the path.

‘Saints alive,’ Thomas stuttered. ‘What was that?’

‘It’s all right,’ Jem said. ‘It was just a barn owl.’

Susan’s face was white as she lowered her hands and crossed herself with trembling fingers. ‘It’s bad luck to see them in daylight, didn’t you know? A barn owl flying in daylight foretells a death.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ Eliza muttered.

That girl could spot the Grim Reaper behind every corner and suck the fun out of anything. As they approached the gate lodge Eliza saw a figure move in the shadow of the wall and felt her own heart kick with fear, until she realised it was just Davy Wells, keeping watch, as he always did. He sprang forward and opened the gate, turning his wary, unsmiling face towards them as they passed.

It was surprisingly cool out of the sun. Goose bumps stippled the skin beneath Eliza’s daisy-embroidered blouse, and she found herself wishing that she’d brought her coat.

June 26th

The guns are still going on. It’s very wet and we’re back in the reserve lines. The countryside here reminds me of where I grew up in Oxfordshire—meadows and copses and farmhouses, gentle and green, not at all like the hills and moors around Coldwell. The farmhouses are mostly ruined now, by shelling and army occupation.

As I came back from night fatigues this morning a barn owl flew low over our heads, following the line of the trench. They nest in the ruined buildings and probably can’t believe their luck with all the fat rats here. I thought of the day we went to the fair at Howden Bridge, and what Susan said when that owl broke cover from the wood.

In this place, I think there’s a good chance she’d be right.

Chapter 6

The smell of a fair assaulted her nose: roast meat, trampled grass, spilled ale, horses, and hot humanity. Kate picked her way through the crowd, around fractious children and snappy mothers; stocky farm workers whose cheeks were crimson with warmth and beer. Her throat was dry and beneath her hat the hair at the nape of her neck was damp. The clouds had swelled, swallowing up the blue sky and blocking out the sun. It was warmer than ever; a dull, sticky heat.

She had finished her business in Hatherford quickly, aware that Johnny Farrow had not hitched the horses and gone into the Bull’s Head for his usual pint, but was waiting on the wagon outside the bank. She had seen him through the pyramids of cocoa tins and tea packets piled in the window of Pearson’s the grocers as she’d placed her orders, flicking his whip moodily, impatient to return to Howden Bridge where the aroma of roasting hog was already filling the air when they’d dropped the others off.

She had also seen herself reflected in the window’s glass—a stiff-shouldered, pinch-faced spinster in an unbecoming hat, whose image stayed with her as she made her way through the crowds at the fair. She would have liked to go into the tent where tea was being served, or join the queue for homemade cordials at a penny a glass, but she felt self-conscious and exposed. Each casual, curious glance of a passing stranger was like a blow on an old bruise.

And there were so many strangers. So many men whose eyes sought out a woman alone, who looked, and kept on looking, just because they could. It was idle interest, that was all, not purposeful scrutiny. Even so, she saw him everywhere; in a set of narrow shoulders or the curl of black hair on a collar. A purposeful walk, the flick of a hand. A shouted greeting in a Scottish accent set her heart rattling.

It made no sense, of course. Alec Ross had his fingers in many business pies, all bigger and more richly filled than trading animals at a rural fair. There was no logical reason to suspect that he might appear in Howden Bridge; but fear, once it had taken root, didn’t need logic to spread and flourish.

Slipping through the knots of people, she lowered her head and quickened her pace, not slowing until she’d crossed the packhorse bridge and left the fair behind. Her blouse stuck to the skin between her shoulder blades and her scalp prickled. The day’s mood had changed; the light had congealed and the summer warmth had thickened into something oppressive. Clouds billowed and boiled above the hilltops.

If the weather was fair, she rather enjoyed the two-mile walk between Howden Bridge and Coldwell. The path followed the river for a little way as it rushed and crashed over rocks (the water brown with peat, like coffee) before they parted company and the path twisted upwards between rocky outcrops, thickets of bracken, and purple heather to cross an exposed stretch of moorland, with the hills of the Dark Peak circling it like an amphitheatre. Today the climb felt arduous, and she longed to be in her room, where she could peel off her heavy clothing and drop her mask of respectability. She wanted to shut the door, unhook her corset, and lie in luxurious cool and quiet, safe from prying eyes.

She felt the first drops of rain as she reached the top of the ridge. A shiver of wind went over the clumps of coarse cotton grass and rippled through the heather. Black Tor was a little way ahead, a dark shape against the pewter sky. She broke into a half run as, with a rushing sound, the heavens opened. The world’s edges dissolved into a hazy blur, its details lost behind sheets of teeming water.

She stopped and tipped her face up, surrendering to the downpour. Within seconds her shoulders were soaked, the cold water seeping onto her skin, dripping down her face. After the fears and frustrations of the day the force of the rain seemed unsurprising, and almost personal—one more challenge to overcome—and there was something liberating in refusing to run and simply giving in. But she couldn’t stand there forever. Unpinning her hat (made of black raffia and not intended to withstand such a soaking) she walked on, shaking back her head and hitching up her wet skirts, wading over the splashy ground.

The gritstone rocks that made up Black Tor had not been positioned by human endeavour but carved from the landscape by a million years of weather. It was rain and biting wind that had created a shelter between the massive stones; a sort of cave, like a cupped hand, which had offered centuries of protection to drovers and their animals. Rain bounced off the flat stone that formed its roof. Inside it smelled of earth and wet and sheep.

And… tobacco smoke?

She peeled off her gloves, freeing her reddened, work-roughened skin from the chafe of damp cotton. The roar of the rain was hushed here, so she heard the soft inhalation of breath before she noticed someone leaning against the back of the cave, smoking a cigarette.

She stiffened, her heart cartwheeling as he straightened up and came forward, so she could see him properly.

‘Nice day for a fair.’

Jem Arden. He had taken his coat off and his shirtsleeves were rolled back. He was almost as wet as she was, and she wondered where he’d come from; she hadn’t seen him on the path ahead of her. He held up his cigarette and muttered an apology before stubbing it out against the rock, then he pinched the end and carefully tucked it into the pocket of the coat slung over his arm.

She turned away, aware that her blouse was soaked almost to transparency and her hair was coming loose at the back. Clamping her ruined hat beneath her arm, she attempted to push the pins back in. ‘It’ll pass quickly. Sudden showers always do.’

As she said it there was a fresh onslaught, a crescendoing hiss from the silvery world beyond their shelter. Water cascaded from the overhanging stone above their heads.

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