Page 65 of The Housekeeper's Secret

Jem walked quickly, stumbling on the uneven ground, his head full of the rasp of his own breath and the swarm-like buzz of his thoughts.

Plunging into the woods, he didn’t look behind him, to where the windows of Coldwell Hall glittered gold in the dusk. But in his mind a different version of himself turned round and went back, slipping along the garden corridor to the gun room, where Randolph Hyde kept the collection of weapons essential to any country gentleman for the slaughter of wildlife, selecting the first that came to hand.

No one would remark on the sound of a gunshot once the fireworks started. And with the park full of so many people, no one would think to point the finger at Jem. How could they? Doing so would mean acknowledging what had happened to Jack. What Hyde had done.

They had their own tigers to hunt.

He stopped walking and looked around in bewilderment, realising he had lost his bearings. The darkness was thicker here, the sounds of the celebrations more distant. Above his head the trees stretched towards the sky, blotting out the stars. He swung round, breath burning in his chest, trying to orientate himself. What time was it? Panic pumped through him at the thought of Kate, waiting for him in the gamekeeper’s cottage. It was closely followed by guilt and a brutal sideswipe of longing that made his knees buckle. Longing to hold her and breathe her in and let the goodness of her drive away the rottenness of everything else.

Pushing himself forward, he was shocked to feel a stinging sensation at the back of his eyes, which he didn’t immediately recognise as tears.

She was all he cared about now. She was the only one who was on his side, who saw him for who he was. And still he had kept a part of himself hidden from her.

If he told her, would she understand? Would she despise him?

She had been brave enough to lower her guard and confide in him. She had trusted him enough to share her secret.

Now it was his turn.

In her room Kate locked the door and poured boiling water into the bowl on her washstand. She pulled off her stockings with shaking hands and struggled out of her dress with a shudder of disgust. She would never wear any of those items again.

She had maintained a veneer of calm as she had walked back with Davy, instinctively seeking to minimise what they had just experienced by chattering distractedly about stupid, inconsequential things. As if remarking on the moon, or the strains of a country jig drifting over the trees, could make either of them forget the dark cottage and what had happened there.

And what would have happened next, if Davy hadn’t appeared.

It wasn’t so easy to avoid thinking about it now that she was alone, or about where Jem had got to and why he hadn’t come. In a far corner of her mind there lodged a painful shard of worry that Henderson had somehow prevented him, but he would have been keen to taunt her with that, if it had been true. Instead, her thoughts cycled through other possibilities. That he hadn’t been able to shake off the others, and had eventually given up trying. That he’d got drunk and lost track of time, or been swept up in the dancing and found he’d rather stay at the party, rationalising that he had satisfied her once already and would apologise later. She pictured him circling the floor with one of the pretty village girls, their eyes fixed intently on each other in the glow of the lights. In the mirror above the washstand her own image swam in the darkness—hollow-eyed and haggard.

The water was so hot it made her wince. She set her jaw hard and rubbed the soap onto a flannel, concentrating on the rose scent of it, splashing water onto her body and scrubbing her skin.

Still she could smell it. Hair oil. Meat. Sweat.

It could have been worse, she told herself. She had been lucky that Davy was there.

But the thought brought her no comfort.

As she pulled on her nightdress, she heard a tentative knock on the parlour door. She froze, torn between hope and dread, her head signalling a warning that it might be Henderson, wanting to smooth things over or finish what he’d started, her heart spiralling with yearning for Jem.

‘Who is it?’

She closed her eyes. The answer came quietly, in a voice she hadn’t expected.

‘It’s me, Sarah Dunn…’

An expectant silence spooled from the words as Kate’s hope was snuffed out. Which was exactly what she needed to do to Miss Dunn’s sudden odd need to seek her company. Kate opened the door a crack. The corridor outside was lit only by moonlight and the dim glow of the lamp at the far end by the basement stairs, so the figure of Lady Hyde’s maid merged with the shadows. Only the white ribbon pinned to her dress stood out in the gloom.

‘Was there something you wanted, Miss Dunn? Only I’m rather tired…’

In the silvered dark she saw the gleam of Miss Dunn’s eyes as she took in Kate’s loosened hair, her nightdress.

‘Forgive me. It—it can wait. Sorry to have disturbed you.’

Kate was vaguely aware of guilt, but it was a pale, colourless emotion compared to the lurid flashes going off inside her head. Insipid, like Miss Dunn. Easily pushed aside.

She closed the door and turned the key in the lock. Then, as an afterthought, she dragged the velvet armchair across the room and pushed it hard against the door.

I came to your room that night.

I hoped that you would have left the door unlocked, as you so often did. When it wasn’t, I assumed you must be angry that I hadn’t come to the cottage. I didn’t blame you. I was angry with myself for having been so single-minded that I’d left you waiting there, as if you didn’t matter, or as if I didn’t care. I had allowed myself to be so focused on getting revenge for my brother’s wasted life that I didn’t notice I was throwing my own away.

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