Motes danced in the air before her, making her cough. She stopped and glanced down at the steps. Her black skirts had brushed up a cloud of the stuff: a powder, unlike ordinary dust. Denser. She bent down, pinching a speck between her thumb and index finger. The grains were beige and coarse.
She raised her fingers to her nose. Her nostrils flared with scents that took her back to the factory. Something sharp and clean: linseed. And beneath that a deeper, nutty aroma. She sneezed. Yes – it was sawdust.
Here?
Sawdust, phosphorous, the whirl of the cutting blade . . .
Hurriedly, she brushed it away and slapped out her skirts, not wanting a trace of the stuff upon her.
Perhaps it was the beams supporting the ceiling; they might be crumbling, like everything else at The Bridge. She would have to ask Mrs Holt later on.
As she stood, the stairwell wobbled – she was going to faint. Leaning against the banister, she tottered down the last steps. Breathe, breathe.
Sometimes it happened like that; the slightest thing would hurtle her back in time, resurrect memories and reduce her to the state of a frightened child.
With the blood roaring in her ears, she reached the Great Hall and sucked in a ragged breath. She was here now, safe.
The past had taken enough from her already – she would not let it have her adult years too.
She took the door to the left of the fireplace and entered the dining room. Jolyon and Sarah were already seated at a mahogany table, the dandelion-gold brocade on the wall throwing a sickly shade over their skin. They took their napkins off their laps and rose to their feet as she entered.
‘There you are.’ Jolyon dabbed his mouth. ‘I am afraid we started without you. We were not sure if you would be down.’
The grandfather clock chimed.
‘I must go on as usual, I suppose.’ Her voice shook. She slumped into the chair Jolyon pulled out for her, just in time.
Servants lurked by the sideboard – the shabby maid Mabel and an older woman who must be Helen. She was a stout, jolly-looking thing, her face flushed in a permanent strawberry hue – no doubt the effect of standing over hot water for many years. Wisps of ginger hair escaped her cap at the temples. Elsie guessed her age at around forty.
Supervising both maids was a tall grey-haired man. He looked as if he had never smiled in his life.
Jolyon poured coffee while Helen served up buttered eggs on toast with herring, but the sawdust smell had turned Elsie’s stomach. She took her fork and toyed with the wobbly pile of egg.
‘Miss Bainbridge was just telling me about her time in the vicar’s house.’ Jolyon lifted the tails of his coat and sat back down beside her.
Sarah blushed up to the roots of her lanky hair. ‘Wasn’t it good of him, Mrs Bainbridge, to take me in like that? When he was so busy?’
‘Yes.’
‘He strikes me as a superior sort of man,’ Jolyon observed. ‘Not bred for the church, I think. At any rate, not a church in Fayford.’
‘No, he wasn’t,’ Sarah gabbled, warming to her subject. ‘He left a rich family and an inheritance to try and do some good. His father cut him off without a penny, but he had a little of his own money. He used it to get the living at Fayford. Did you ever hear of such a noble thing?’
Elsie placed a morsel of food in her mouth and chewed slowly. It was a mistake – the texture of the egg made her want to gag.
‘Are you well, Mrs Bainbridge?’
‘Yes, yes.’ She touched a napkin to her mouth and discreetly spat out the egg. ‘But what about you? Have you recovered from your faintness yesterday?’
‘Yes, thank you. I am much stronger today.’
‘I am glad to hear it. I expect you have had enough of funerals, after the death of Mrs Crabbly and your parents.’
‘Yes.’ Sarah took a shaky sip of her tea. ‘Although I didn’t attend Mrs Crabbly’s burial. She was awfully old-fashioned like that. She would have turned in her grave to know there had been a woman present at her funeral. But my parents . . .’ She stared into her tea.
‘Rupert did not tell me much about your parents,’ Elsie said gently.
‘Well, I can scarcely tell you more. I expect Rupert was better acquainted with them than I ever was. They put me out to Mrs Crabbly when I was eight, to train as a companion. We were never wealthy, you see, on our side of the family. Something to do with an argument between my grandfather and his father. So we all worked. My parents did not have a great deal of time for me.’ Sarah took another gulp of tea, as if to give her strength. ‘And then they were gone. There was no money for a funeral. I couldn’t have buried them if Rupert had not . . . He was always so good to me.’ Her voice thickened. ‘I wish . . .’
Embarrassed, Elsie picked up her fork and shredded her herring. She was beginning to regret treating the girl so flippantly. Sarah may be dull as ditchwater, but she had suffered. ‘I am so sorry.’
Jolyon cleared his throat. ‘We understand, Miss Bainbridge.’ He did not meet Elsie’s eye. ‘We also lost our parents at a young age.’
Sarah shook her head, hair slipping from her chignon. ‘It doesn’t do to dwell upon it. But you can see why I was so grateful to Mr Underwood and his servant for looking after me. Did you know that Mr Underwood gave me the very last of his tea? I felt awful taking it. His cupboards were so sparse. Only a sliver of sugar, and absolutely no milk!’
‘Milk!’ Elsie speared a piece of herring triumphantly. ‘Of course, that is the answer. That is how I can help the village! Jolyon, you must make enquiries. I am going to adopt the cow.’
Jolyon snorted into his coffee. The maids shifted by the sideboard. ‘What cow?’
‘The cow I saw on my way here. Poor old beast, it looked quite done in. The more I think on it, the more I believe she was asking me for help. If I buy the cow, I can bring her here to get nice and fat, and then she will produce milk. We can make cheese. And I can give the milk and the cheese to the villagers, for free.’
‘You are a goose, Elsie.’ He placed his cup down. ‘Why not simply call on the villagers with a basket?’
‘It will feel less condescending this way. Don’t you think?’
Jolyon raised his hands. ‘It does not matter what I say. You are sure to do just as you please. But you will have to get Mr Stilford here, or Mrs Holt, to make your enquiries. I am returning to London by this afternoon’s train.’
‘This afternoon!’
‘I am afraid so. Speaking to the gentlemen at the funeral made me realise how pressing business matters are.’
‘But . . .’ How could he abandon her, leave her alone with Sarah? ‘When will you be back?’
‘Not for a good while, I should think.’ His lips compressed; she sensed there were things he could not say in front of Sarah. ‘I am sorry, Elsie. But I have to go back. For the factory.’
And how could she argue with that? She, who had given so much for that place?
‘Of course. Of course, I understand.’