Page 31 of The Housekeeper's Secret

‘Of course.’ His swollen mouth made his smile more lopsided than usual, but as he straightened the arm that was crossed over his chest, he winced. ‘Trying to sleep, anyway. Can’t leave the Coldwell treasure hoard unattended.’

She knew how hard the pull-out bed by the silver cupboard was. How narrow. It was intended for a boy of Joseph’s size rather than a man of Jem’s, but it wasn’t her place to go above Mr Goddard and give him leave to sleep upstairs. And a selfish part of her was glad he was there, close by.

She nodded. ‘Good night, then.’

Glancing back as she turned into the stillroom passage, she saw that he was still standing there, dissolving into the summer dark like a ghost.

In his defence, Jem did try to return the keys to Mr Goddard.

After she’d gone, he knocked softly on the door to the butler’s pantry, but no light showed beneath it and no sound came from inside. Mr Goddard had been instructed to carry out an audit of the wine and spirit cellars during Hyde’s absence, jettisoning anything that had gone off, working out what required replenishing before the wedding. When Jem had gone in earlier, there had been several dusty bottles on his desk and a crust of purple on the old boy’s lips. He wasn’t surprised when there was no answer to his knock.

And so, when he was sure all was quiet, he went quietly up the back stairs and along the ladies’ corridor, through the door to the nursery wing. In the room Mrs Furniss had shown him, he lowered himself gingerly onto one of the straw-stuffed mattresses on the floor, gritting his teeth against the jagged shards of pain that speared his ribs.

The pain was so much stronger than it had been at first, and worse when he tried to lie down. And so, he sat, propped up against the wall with his arms wrapped around his chest, looking at the star-scattered sky, and wondering if Jack had been here, in this room, in November 1902. If he had slept on one of these stained pallets, squeezed in amongst the snoring bodies of other footmen and carriage grooms.

And if he had, what the hell had happened after that?

Chapter 11

Kate’s dreams were vivid and uneasy.

Through the hot, airless night she flitted through half-familiar landscapes, full of contradictions and urgent imperatives she didn’t understand. In one dream, she was writing in her household ledger, her pen scratching rapidly along the lines, but when she looked back the ink had faded until all the pages were blank. In another, she was hurriedly trying to fasten her corset but each time she managed to secure one hook another would come loose. And then, her frustration turned to dismay as she realised that the reason it wouldn’t close was because, beneath the corset, her ribs were sticking out from her open flesh. And he was there, watching her.

Alec.

It’s because I love you—can’t you see that? All of this—everything I do—is for you. Why can’t you just be grateful?

His voice jolted her awake. She lay, not moving, her rapid breath steadying as she realised it was a dream. The room was empty.

Soft light was filtering through the curtains. She knew she wouldn’t sleep again so she got up, sliding her feet into silk slippers at the side of the bed. Opening the curtains, she saw that sunrise was still some time away, and the air was pearly and damp.

With no Susan to set water to boil and no Abigail to bring her tea, Kate shrugged on her housecoat and went to see to it herself. The passage was cool, the row of bells high up on the wall silent and swathed in shadow. The clock ticked sleepily in the kitchen. Passing the servants’ hall she glanced in, and felt her heart stutter in alarm as she saw a figure, slumped in Mr Goddard’s chair.

‘Jem?’

Her first, panicked thought was that the intruder had returned and Jem was hurt. His head was turned away, his hands resting on the arms of the chair and his back oddly straight, but as she approached, she could see that he was asleep. Or he had been. Her voice jolted him back to consciousness, as if she’d thrown a bucket of cold water over him.

‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.’

His rigid shoulders relaxed a fraction. He dropped his head into his hands. ‘Better you than Mr Goddard. What time is it?’

‘Early. Not yet five.’ They were speaking softly, almost in whispers. ‘Is something wrong? What are you doing here?’

‘I didn’t mean to fall asleep.’ He levered himself upright in the chair and his bruised face contorted with pain. ‘Didn’t think I’d be able to.’

‘Your chest? Is it very sore?’

A nod, almost imperceptible. ‘I can’t lie down.’

Guilt needled her. She wasn’t surprised he couldn’t lie comfortably on that shelf by the silver cupboard; she should have taken charge of the situation last night and given him permission to sleep elsewhere.

‘Would you allow me to bind it?’

With a sigh, he went to rub a hand over his eyes, pulling it abruptly away as his fingers encountered the swelling. The bruising was darker today, though its florid kaleidoscope of colours was changing. ‘I’d allow you to do anything that stopped it hurting.’

She remembered that pain. Like an oyster knife slipped into the gap in the shell and twisted. Her corset had eased it, she recalled. It had held the broken pieces of her together.

She returned to her room to get bandages from the medicine chest and calico and safety pins. When she came back, he was standing beneath the window with his back to her. He didn’t look round when she came in, or when she said, as matter-of-factly as she could, ‘You can take your shirt off now.’

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