Page 91 of The Housekeeper's Secret

The brief brightness seemed to have burnt itself into his eyes. He could still see it, dancing in front of him, after the match had died. But then he realised it was coming closer, and there were footsteps too, echoing and splashing along the tunnel.

His body responded instantly: a whipcrack of panicky energy that sent him scrambling to stand as pain ripped through his shoulder and exploded in his head like fireworks. He didn’t want to give Henderson another go at him while he was on the floor. Bent double, with his arms clamped around his body, he staggered up, tasting blood as he coughed, almost passing out from the spasm of pain it unleashed.

He wanted to square his shoulders, to lift his head, and raise his fists, but he couldn’t. And so he waited, every screaming nerve taut, braced for the blow.

The footsteps stopped a few feet away.

‘It’s all right. Don’t be scared,’ said a voice he didn’t recognise.

He forced his eyes open a crack.

The light swayed, gleaming on the wet walls. On the face of the person who held it. Jem squinted, trying to bring it into focus.

‘Davy?’

Chapter 31

Once the initial awkwardness wore off, the evening seemed to be a success.

It had been a lean and quiet Christmas for most, cut off in their cottages by the snow, so there was a mood of festivity and an appetite for celebration. And however numerous his faults, it had to be said that Sir Randolph was a generous host. Beneath the blaze of the chandeliers, cheeks grew red with beer and cheer as the evening wore on.

Henderson caught up with Kate in the dining room. She wasn’t hungry but had drifted there to give herself a purpose, as if the staff couldn’t be trusted to serve themselves from the buffet without her supervision. Lady Hyde came across, to remark kindly upon the marvellous job Miss Dunn had done with the blue dress, and how much better it suited Kate. She chattered (with a trace of wistfulness) about the hunt ball she had worn it to, back home in Shropshire, until Frederick Henderson joined them, apologising to her ladyship, and asking Kate to dance.

As always, he had worked it out carefully and left nothing to chance. By approaching her in front of Lady Hyde, Kate couldn’t refuse. Not without appearing rude. She had no choice but to take the arm he offered and go with him into the hallway, where the band were playing the opening bars of ‘The Blue Danube.’

‘Forgive me for stealing you away like that,’ he said, his voice an intimate murmur as he guided Kate round the floor. He was only an inch or so taller than she, so his lips were level with her ear, and his breath fanned her neck. Through her gloves she could feel the heat of his hand and through the thin silk of the blue dress she could feel the heat of his body. The smell of him made her rigid with revulsion.

‘You really left me no choice, though; I’ve been trying to catch up with you for the last hour to ask for a dance. A more cynical man might say you were avoiding me, Mrs Furniss. I must say, you look very lovely. Are you enjoying the evening?’

‘Oh yes, Mr Henderson,’ she said tersely. ‘I’m quite giddy with enjoyment. I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be.’

Above them, the second baronet smirked knowingly, as if he were enjoying her discomfort. Henderson laughed, ignoring her sarcasm, rather like an indulgent parent with an overtired child. ‘I’m sure that’s not true,’ he said mildly. ‘A sophisticated woman like yourself, with such a refined background; a woman who has experienced the finer things in life… I’m sure there are many places you’d rather be, Mrs Furniss…’

He paused, steering her carefully around Platt the gamekeeper and Mrs Gatley.

‘Or should that be… Mrs Ross?’

The pain came in waves, like water in a tin bath. Every movement created more, gathering force and momentum until it was impossible to stay afloat and they dragged him under.

Davy hauled him up, hoisting Jem’s arm over his solid shoulders. Jem clamped his jaw shut, biting down on the howl that tore through him, aware, through the haze of agony, that it might frighten Davy away if he let it loose.

He couldn’t afford to frighten Davy away. Even though, at that moment, being left on the floor in the tunnel seemed preferable to this agonising, uneven progress along it.

His head lolled against Davy’s arm. There was an angry buzzing sound inside it. Nausea rolled him in its powerful swell, and there was nothing to do but give himself up to it. He was jolted back to consciousness by his own jagged cry and the searing, white-hot pain in his shoulder as Davy set him down on a bare wooden floor.

Later, when the sawing scrape of his breath had steadied and the agony had subsided a little, he could see they were in a square room, with arched windows on three sides and a fireplace on the fourth. The windows were crowded with stars and let in the silvered light of the moon, enough to faintly illuminate the intricately carved wooden panels around the walls, the murky portrait hanging on the chimney breast. The details of the painting were lost to the shadows, but he could make out the dark oval of a face, the white froth of a lace collar beneath it. The gleam of a jewel fastened to a headdress above.

‘Is this the tower?’

Davy nodded. He had retreated to the other side of the room, where there was a blanket on the floor and a little collection of supplies: the stub of a candle, a jam jar, a handful of sweet chestnuts with a scattering of their spiky cases. He picked up one of the chestnuts and began to pick at its shell, scowling with concentration. The lower half of his face was darkened with a scrubby beard, which seemed at odds with his childlike manner.

‘Is this where you’ve been hiding?’

Another nod. Jem knew now that Davy was capable of speaking, but it seemed he’d rather not.

‘We were worried about you.’

Tentatively Jem pressed his fingers to his face, around his eye, across his cheekbone, and down past his ear. Robson’s fist had struck him at the angle of his jaw; Jem gave a sharp inhalation as his fingers found the place. His tongue felt fat from where he’d bitten it and he could still taste blood. It hurt to open his mouth. To speak.

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