Page 47 of The Housekeeper's Secret

‘Thank you. Was everything there?’

‘It seems so.’ His throat went dry as his eyes found hers. ‘Nothing missing.’

‘Good.’

He should have stepped away then, before he heard the little hitch of her breath and saw the darkness spread in her eyes. The heat made it impossible to do anything in haste, which was why it felt like they were moving through honey as he lifted his hand to cup her cheek and their bodies came together, her face tipping up to his, lips parting.

He’d promised not to compromise her, and anyone passing in the corridor outside would have heard nothing untoward or inappropriate. They might perhaps have been puzzled by the long spell of silence, unbroken by conversation. They would likely have noticed that his cheeks were flushed when he came out of the room a few minutes later, his breathing uneven. They would have probably thought it odd that he hesitated for a second after he shut the door behind him, and leaned against it, collecting himself.

Luckily the passage was empty.

The heat was relentless.

Eliza had never known anything like it. It dragged at her: a physical thing, like weights sewn into her petticoat hem. It made everything move more slowly, from the stupefied flies in the stillroom to the hands of the clocks that ticked through the house.

The days crawled by.

In the evenings Thomas read aloud from the newspapers. In London the intense heat had been interrupted by a sudden freak storm one afternoon, with hailstones as big as golf balls bouncing off the pavements in the Strand. The dockers’ strike was still going on, so the shop shelves were empty while cargoes of fruit, meat, and vegetables rotted in ships’ holds at Rotherhithe. It reminded Eliza that London was a real place; one that still existed. It hadn’t just been the setting of a bizarre dream that had vanished with the coming of daylight.

Even though she was beginning to wish that were true.

He’d promised to write. Well, maybe not promised exactly, but he’d said he would, and the daily hope that a letter might come was the only thing that helped her drag herself out of bed. But it was starting to look like writing was just another one of Walter Cox’s extravagant claims that turned out to be nothing but hot air.

Like when he’d told her she was beautiful. And when he’d said if she left Coldwell and came to London, she could be his girl.

For some reason she kept thinking of those ships’ holds full of spoilt produce, everything blackening and turning to rot. The thought made her stomach heave.

It felt like the whole summer had turned bad.

The work was finally finished in Lady Hyde’s rooms.

For weeks Susan had listened to Eliza and Abigail talking about the furnishings—the eau-de-Nil silk curtains and rose-pink eiderdown, the deep, wide bath standing on lion’s feet—but as a kitchen maid she had no business beyond the servants’ basement and hadn’t seen them herself. One hot afternoon, with Mrs Furniss’s permission, she scurried up the back stairs to have a look.

The light was different upstairs, and the air smelled of potpourri undercut with fresh paint, which was a lot nicer than the mutton fat and boiled cabbage she’d been breathing all day. She followed the sound of Eliza’s voice to a room halfway along the corridor and stood on the threshold, folding her arms across her chest and tucking her chapped hands into her armpits as she looked around.

‘Why are you hovering there with a face like that?’ Eliza demanded, appearing in the doorway of the adjoining room. ‘Come in properly, for goodness sake! Feast your eyes on this bath, and be glad you don’t have to clean it. I might have known all her ladyship’s luxuries would mean more work for us, not less.’

Susan advanced doubtfully. Her feet sunk into the plush carpet and her eyes swept over the walls, where blossoms bloomed on trees that looked nothing like the ones in Derbyshire, and peacocks perched, trailing their extravagant tails.

‘Very nice, I’m sure.’

‘Nice?’ Eliza sounded affronted, as if she’d chosen the fancy fittings herself. ‘Is that all you can say? Nice?’

‘Well, it’s not what I would have chose.’

Eliza gave a short laugh. ‘Hark at you! Lady Hyde must be kicking herself for letting her housekeeper furnish her new suite of rooms, instead of the kitchen skivvy!’

Misery twisted in Susan’s stomach. Eliza’s sharp tongue had been a match for Mrs Gatley’s filleting knife lately. Susan wished she didn’t feel its cuts so deeply.

‘I’m not saying that,’ she mumbled. ‘It’s just… peacocks.’ She shuddered, her gaze shifting uneasily from one painted bird to another. ‘They’re bad luck, aren’t they?’

Eliza’s eyes flicked skywards. ‘I thought that was owls? Or was it crows?’

‘It is…’ Susan wished she’d held her tongue. ‘Owls and crows can be bad omens, but peacocks are too. Or at least their tail feathers. You shouldn’t have ’em in the house, not even as images. They have eyes, see?’ She flapped a hand at the rich plumage of the nearest bird. ‘The devil’s eye.’ She tucked her arms tight into her body again. ‘Still, I suppose it’s all right for Miss Addison. Only a few weeks before she’s safely wed, and if the rest of us die old maids… Well, that’ll suit them nicely, won’t it?’

She could tell Eliza was about to make some stinging retort, but she stopped short, her mouth open.

‘Wait—what do you mean, die as old maids?’

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