Page 26 of The Housekeeper's Secret

The stable boys are looking outside,’ Susan said, sounding almost tearful. ‘Mr Henderson went up to the garden corridor. We’ve shut the windows and made sure they’re all fastened. I can’t bear the thought of someone climbing in when we’re sleeping, creeping along the corridors—’

‘That’s enough, Susan.’ Kate’s voice was sharp. Despite the heat she felt clammy, as though her body had been doused in ice water. Suddenly, the face she had spent years trying to forget loomed in her head; and as she looked up at the high window it seemed to appear there, looking in at her from the darkness. ‘I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.’

But even as she spoke, a distant shout echoed faintly through the house. The girls clutched at each other in alarm.

‘Where did it come from?’

‘Upstairs…’

Kate forced herself forward. Her head buzzed, like a hive full of bees. As she went up the stone steps to the green baize door she felt for the chains on her chatelaine, grasping the scissors and opening their blades.

‘Bring a lamp,’ she said, over her shoulder, and was impressed at the steadiness of her own voice.

The hallway was washed with shadows, painted in shades of inky blue. The animals on the walls seemed to be listening too, quivering and alert, their glassy eyes wide. All the doors leading off the hall were shut, and the stairs stretched up into darkness (for the first time Kate could see the advantages of Sir Randolph’s plan to have electricity installed), so she turned in the direction of the garden passage.

There was someone there.

A figure. No more than a silhouette, though her imagination imposed on it the face she dreaded seeing. The bees in her head swarmed, and her grip tightened on the scissors as she tried to stifle a whimper.

‘Mrs Furniss—’

Frederick Henderson’s voice. Dizzying relief swamped her.

‘No need to panic. There’s been a slight accident.’

‘What’s happened?’

Abigail was holding open the baize door for Eliza, who was running up the stairs with a lamp. Her hurried steps made the shadows jump. Panic had given way to a different kind of dread as Kate went forward, pushing past the arm Henderson held out to restrain her.

‘Jem?’

He was on the floor, by the doors that opened out from the garden passage onto the veranda. She could see his shirt, ice white in the blue summer dark. And then Eliza was there with the lamp and Jem was unfolding himself and looking up, and she saw that the front of his shirt wasn’t white at all but splashed with scarlet, and there was blood oozing between the fingers of the hand he had pressed to his mouth. His face was oddly lopsided, his right cheek puffy and glistening.

Henderson had followed and stood a little distance away, beyond the circle of lamplight.

‘Like I said, an accident.’ His tone was offhand. ‘It was dark. I mistook him for the intruder. I’m sure it looks worse than it is.’

They took him down to the servants’ hall, Thomas and Kate supporting his weight between them, while Abigail and Susan went ahead to heat up water and find flannels.

Jem slumped in Mr Goddard’s chair at the head of the table. The brighter light hanging overhead showed up the damage: a split lip and a bleeding nose; a bruise purpling on his cheekbone, forcing his right eye half-shut. His face was the same colour as his shirt, making the blood stand out more starkly.

There was a lot of blood.

The smell of it, the stickiness, churned up buried memories. Kate moved automatically, dipping a cloth into the basin of cold water, watching it turn pink. ‘It’s going to need ice,’ she said. ‘For the swelling. Eliza, would you get some, please?’

‘From the ice trunk?’ It had been filled that afternoon by the garden lads with blocks brought down from the icehouse, and a whole salmon—gutted, cleaned, and packed with fennel—was now suspended within it, ready for the journey to London. ‘Mrs Gatley said it mustn’t—’

‘I know what Mrs Gatley said.’ Kate cut her off tersely. ‘It’ll only be open for a second. Thomas—get the brandy from the top shelf in the pantry.’

After they’d gone Kate took hold of Jem’s hand and gently pulled it away from his face. Above the blood and the swelling his eyes glittered darkly into hers. Her heart lurched.

It was natural that she should want to put her arms around him, to stroke his hair and soothe the shock; that’s what she told herself. She had felt that pain and remembered too well the disorientation; how a blow could scatter your senses so it felt you might never recover them. Leaning closer to examine his lip, she exhaled softly and hoped he couldn’t hear the thud of her heart.

Chattering voices in the corridor heralded the return of Susan and Abigail, bringing hot water and more cloths. It was only when Kate went to take a clean flannel that she realised that her fingers were still twined with Jem’s. She withdrew her hand, but before he let it go she felt his grip tighten for a second.

Warmth pulsed through her. She didn’t notice Eliza come in.

‘The ice, Mrs Furniss.’

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