According to our strictly-observed rota, it was my turn to drive, and so we at least appeared to be mistress and servant when we arrived at The Grange. My attire, though, ruined the effect. Lady Hardcastle had arranged for her favourite dressmaker in Bristol to fashion me a gown as a birthday gift, and I had decided to wear it to dinner. It was of dark-green silk (‘It would complement your colouring beautifully, miss’) with a richly embroidered bodice. There was sheer green silk covering my shoulders and forming loose sleeves, and more sheer silk falling from the high waist (‘High waists are all the rage this season, miss’), though this time decorated with beads and sequins. It was quite the most exquisite thing I had ever worn.
Most of my experiences of dressing for dinner had been while we were on Crown business, where I had been playing the part of a society lady while I kept an eye on Lady Hardcastle. That night, though, I had no role to play, no fictitious title to hide behind. I was just Florence Armstrong, a lady’s maid in a smart frock, and I was feeling decidedly exposed.
The house was a pleasingly ramshackle mishmash of architectural styles from Tudor to Gothic Revival, with a bit of Georgian thrown in for good measure. It entirely suited the delightfully eccentric present owners, the Farley-Strouds.
At the time, I felt distinctly uncomfortable about entering The Grange as a ‘guest’. I’d been to the house many times before. I’d even entered through the front door before. I’d had lunch with Lady Farley-Stroud. And I’d been in many situations over the years where I had played the part of everything from street girl to earl’s daughter. But somehow, being invited for dinner seemed distinctly odd. I wondered if perhaps it was because the Farley-Strouds knew me first as Lady Hardcastle’s maid before they had come to see me differently, but they were always so charming and friendly that I decided that couldn’t really be what bothered me.
When Jenkins, the Farley-Strouds’ butler, answered the door and, with a smile and a bow, bade us enter, I realized what it was. The servants. The household servants knew I was ‘nothing more’ than a lady’s maid, and although I got on well enough with all of them (even the domineering cook, Mrs Brown), I knew there would be one or two (most especially Dora, the housemaid) who would think me to be getting altogether above myself.
It was a warm evening and we were without coats, so Jenkins led us straight through to the comfortable library, where Sir Hector and Lady Farley-Stroud were already sipping pre-prandial drinks. They had spent the early years of their marriage in India (though I never did quite find out what Sir Hector’s line of business actually was), and gin and tonic was still their favourite sundowner. Sir Hector was helping himself to a glass as we entered, and immediately set about making two more.
‘Good evening, m’dears,’ he said warmly. ‘Wonderful of you to come, what.’
‘Entirely our pleasure, Hector, darling,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Gertie, you look lovely. Is that a new frock?’
Lady Farley-Stroud beamed delightedly. ‘How kind of you to say so, dear,’ she said. ‘I’ve been trying to get Hector to notice it for the past half an hour.’
‘Noticed it, m’dear,’ he said as he handed us our drinks. ‘Just didn’t want to say the wrong thing – I’ve been caught out like that before. “That’s a lovely dress,” I say. “Is it new?” Then I’m treated to a stern lecture lasting, I should say, at least ten minutes, on how I never pay attention, and that it’s a shabby old dress that you’ve had for years, and that if I cared at all, I’d buy you a new one. Can’t win, m’dear. Can’t win.’
Lady Farley-Stroud tutted, but continued to beam. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen so devoted a couple in all my days, though the Hardcastles came close before Sir Roderick was murdered in China.
Lady Hardcastle was similarly touched and was smiling broadly as she accepted her G&T.
‘’Fraid we’ve no limes, m’dear,’ said Sir Hector, oblivious to the effect his exchange with his wife had produced. ‘Can do you a slice of lemon, if you fancy?’
‘No, darling,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘This will do splendidly.’
I sipped tentatively at my drink, trying to remain as unobtrusive as possible.
‘Don’t look so nervous, dear,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud kindly. ‘I’ve said before that if Emily treats you as one of the family, then we should too. And we did invite you especially, after all.’
Sir Hector winked. ‘She’s a little afraid of you, too, m’dear. She’s told everyone we know about the time you brought down that chap outside The Hayrick. “Wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of her,” she always says.’
I laughed.
‘Oh, Hector! Really!’ she said.
I looked around the library, trying to work out why it always seemed so comfortable and welcoming, despite being ever-so-slightly shabby and past its prime. Perhaps that was it. Perhaps it was the loved-and-lived-in quality that made it feel so cosy. The chintz-covered chairs had been fashionable once, as had the mahogany sideboard, but their glory days were behind them.
‘Life really has become much more exciting since you two moved to the village, you know,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘I’m sure the most interesting thing to have happened before you came was the occasional bit of late-night shenanigans behind the cricket pavilion during the mating season.’ She winked theatrically.
‘Steady on, old girl,’ said Sir Hector. ‘Don’t get yourself flusticated.’
‘There were fewer dead people, though, I shouldn’t wonder,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘No, m’dear,’ said Sir Hector. ‘Always plenty of murders around these parts. Somethin’ in the water, what?’
I remembered our friend Inspector Sunderland from the Bristol CID telling us that we’d moved to what he described as England’s ‘murder capital’. He had told us, as we helped unravel the mystery of a murder that had been committed in this very library, that there were ‘more murders per head of population in this part of Gloucestershire than anywhere else in the country’. It was going to be a relief to get away to Rutland, where no one was likely to die in suspicious circumstances and we could get on with the serious business of enjoying ourselves.
‘But that’s by the by, Hector, dear,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud, clearly keen to steer the subject away from dead bodies. ‘My point is that village life has been a great deal more eventful since Emily moved in. And it’s wonderful to have someone living in your house. We were afraid that it was going to remain empty when we heard that the chap who built it wouldn’t be returning to England quite as soon as he’d hoped. It could have fallen derelict, or become a haven for vagabonds. Terribly irresponsible of him, whoever he is.’
‘Jasper Laxton,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘We heard from him just the other day, actually. He’s staying in India for the foreseeable future, it seems – his business is suddenly prospering and his wife is trying to set up a school. I’m very seriously considering making an offer to buy the place from him, as a matter of fact.’
Lady Farley-Stroud very nearly clapped her hands. ‘Oh, I say, how wonderful. Oh, do please stay, Emily, dear. She should stay, shouldn’t she, Hector?’
Sir Hector had been sidling back towards the drinks tray when he heard his name. ‘What?’ he said distractedly. ‘Who should do what?’