‘Ah.’ The lines in Mrs Holt’s face deepened. Elsie nodded for her to sit. ‘It’s a very strange situation, madam. There’s been a long feud between the village and the family – dating back, I think, all the way to the Civil War. They believe one of our ladies was a witch, or some other silly thing.’
Elsie stared down at the tablecloth and its small wreaths of embroidered flowers. When Mabel had said the villagers were afraid of the house, she had imagined ghosts and goblins, not a witch. But everyone knew that in those days women could be, and often were, accused of witchcraft for all manner of things. ‘Did you at least try to recruit in Fayford, Mrs Holt?’
‘Oh yes. But you see my case was not helped by the Roberts family. One of them was a footman here around the turn of the century, and he met with an unlucky accident.’
‘What do you mean, accident?’
Mrs Holt pressed a hand to her chest and adjusted a cameo brooch. ‘No one is sure how it happened. The poor soul fell all the way from the gallery into the Great Hall. Broke his neck, of course. A great tragedy. But some of the Roberts maintain, even now, that he was pushed.’
‘By whom?’
‘Well, that particular master lost his wife shortly after. There’s a story about the Roberts man being the wife’s admirer . . . You know how these things go.’ Mrs Holt waved her hand. The flesh upon it was like chicken skin. ‘A jealous husband, taking revenge.’
‘Upon my word, the village seems full of stories, and all of them about us.’
Mrs Holt smiled. ‘Country folk, madam. They must have something to keep the winter nights occupied. But have no fear. I am sure we will find some excellent workers elsewhere, for both your house and your garden.’
‘Let us hope so.’ Clearing her throat, she went on, ‘You see, I have cause to be particular about my staff. There will soon be – I mean, come spring – I have reason to hope there may be . . .’ Heat rushed to her face. There was no delicate way to say it.
‘You don’t mean . . . Bless me, Mrs Bainbridge, are you telling me that you have sprained your ankle?’
Sprained your ankle. She hadn’t heard that expression in years – a common phrase, but it did the trick. ‘Yes. The baby should arrive in May.’ It was unsettling to see tears sparkle in the old lady’s eyes. Embarrassed, she hurried on. ‘I will need nursemaids, and also a new lady’s maid for myself. I mean to go into Torbury St Jude and visit the Registry Office. Is that where you found Mabel and Helen?’
Mrs Holt opened her mouth. Closed it. ‘I – I did not have a large salary to offer, madam. And given the deserted nature of the estate, without a resident family or opportunity for progression . . .’ She twisted in her chair. ‘I found it better to take girls from the workhouse, madam.’
‘The workhouse,’ she said flatly. Of course, that explained so much. ‘I suppose they did not have any formal training?’
Mrs Holt blushed. ‘Helen did.’
‘And how exactly did Helen come to leave service?’
Again, Mrs Holt fiddled with her brooch. ‘I have not enquired into it.’
‘I must say, I am astonished you could think such women suitable for employment in my house! You knew nothing of their characters. How did you ascertain if they were honest? And how can I trust them near my child? Mabel is a terrible influence. She has left trays of food to grow foul in my room. The language she uses, her inability to even curtsy – I cannot risk my child copying such behaviour!’
‘I can only apologise. I will speak to her, madam. They’re not used to serving a mistress and perhaps I have been too soft on them, in the past.’ She took a breath. ‘But I’ve found their general cleaning and cooking quite satisfactory.’
‘I wish that I could say the same. The amount of dust in the maroon corridor is phenomenal. I even found sawdust, of all things, upon the stairs – where could that have come from? Some of the carpets look as if they have never been beaten, which I cannot comprehend when the nursery is in such perfect order.’
Mrs Holt’s head jerked up. ‘The nursery?’
‘Yes. That is one room I will thankfully have no need to prepare. It is practically ready for my child.’
Mrs Holt looked at her strangely. ‘Perhaps there has been some confusion. The girls rarely go into the nursery.’
‘You are mistaken, Mrs Holt. They have even been brushing the rocking horse and setting up dollies’ tea parties.’
‘Dear me.’ Mrs Holt shook her head. ‘I had no idea. Helen told me she was afraid of that room. Everything was covered up with dustsheets.’
‘Not this morning. Come, I will show you.’ She stood.
Mrs Holt rose too, grasping at the keys dangling from her waist. ‘I hardly ever go there,’ she confessed. ‘The servants’ stairs lead up to the landing just outside. If you do not mind?’
‘Not at all. I am quite capable of going up servants’ stairs.’
Elsie spoke bravely, but she had cause to regret it. There was no space for her crinoline; it jammed and stuck out behind her in a hefty tail which she lugged from step to step.
They emerged onto the landing she had crossed with Sarah earlier that day. She followed Mrs Holt to the door. Once again, that tense, unsettled feeling held her captive. It is just a nursery, she told herself. There is no need to cry.
Mrs Holt jangled the keys at her waist and slipped one into the lock. It clicked as the tumblers moved.
‘But it was not locked when—’ It could not be. It was simply not possible.
The airy, perfectly manicured room had perished. Tatty curtains covered the windows, admitting only sparks of light. The dolls were gone. The ark was gone. A few toy chests remained, but they were coated in the dust of countless years. Great white sheets, like those in the garret, formed lumpy shapes where the rocking horse and the cot had been. Rust spotted the firescreen and the iron bedstead.
Mrs Holt did not speak.
‘I – it’s not—’ Words swarmed into her mouth, but she could not form any of them. How could it be? Striding over to the crib, she took hold of the sheet. ‘Right here, there was the most beautiful . . .’ She gasped. As the sheet slithered away, a musty smell of camphor welled up. The shape of the crib endured, but the delicate draperies were moth-eaten and stained.
‘I didn’t think the girls would trouble it much,’ Mrs Holt said carefully. ‘It’s a sad place. Not opened except for a sweep every few months, since the little ones went.’
Elsie stared at her. The nursery had been glorious. She could not have imagined the things she had seen. Sarah was there too – she had pushed the horse.
‘What – what did you say? The little ones?’
Metal keys clunked together as Mrs Holt shifted her stance. ‘Yes, God bless them.’
‘Whose little ones?’
‘The – the master and mistress. That is, Master Rupert’s parents. He was the third child – or so I was told.’