Castle of Secrets (20 page)

She turned her
attention back to her work. There would be few flowers to decorate the castle,
but there were plenty of other things to brighten the April gloom. Huge fires
were lit in every room, and the reds and oranges of the flames cast a rosy glow
over the walls and furniture. The tapestries, newly beaten, were colourful, and
she had brought more paintings down from the attic. Some had needed their
frames mending and some had needed restringing, but all now adorned the walls.
There were portraits, hunting scenes and beautiful views of the castle, painted
in the summer, which brought the promise of blue skies and sunshine to the
rooms.

She went down
into the kitchen to see how Mrs Beal was getting along. Mrs Beal was directing
the women and girls who had been hired to help her, and the kitchen was a mass
of loaves, cakes and other tempting food. Joints of meat were roasting over the
spit, and pies and pasties were being filled with sweet and savoury fillings.
The room was warm, and full of all the varied scents of cooking. The smell of
meat mixed with the smell of herbs and spices to create a heady brew.

Helena
went into the pantry,
where the cool marble surfaces displayed a collection of cheese, butter, milk,
eggs and cream.

Satisfied that
Mrs Beal had everything well in hand, she paused only to offer a few words of
encouragement and then
went
to
the
housekeeper’s room. She was about to go in when she saw Lord Torkrow crossing
the hall. He was looking about him, taking an interest in everything.

‘You have done
well,’ he said to her. ‘I have never seen the castle looking better.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Now, to
business. I will greet my guests as they arrive, and you will escort them to
their rooms.’

‘Very good, my
lord.’

‘I will be
glad when this evening is over,’ he said, looking around once more, and
speaking as though he had forgotten she was there. ‘If the company were more
congenial and the chatter not so inconsequential, then perhaps . . . . But
there is not one single person I wish to see and I have a horror of playing the
charming host to people I despise.’

Helena
’s feelings were written
across her face.

‘You think I
will not play the charming host?’ he asked. ‘Perhaps you are right. My charm
has long since deserted me.’

He continued
on his way. As
Helena
went into the housekeeper’s room, she found herself wondering what he would say
if he knew there was going to be an unexpected guest at the ball, and that she
would be the lady in medieval costume.

The first guests, Mr and Mrs Harcourt, 
arrived at
midday
. Lord Torkrow greeted
them with civility if not warmth, and
Helena
conducted them to their room. They did not seem a happy
couple, despite their evident wealth. Mr Harcourt was a man approaching forty
years of age, with features that had once been handsome but were now growing
slack with dissipation. His breath smelled of brandy, though the hour was
early, and there was a restless look in his eye. His clothes were impeccably
cut, but the collar and cuffs showed signs of fraying, indicating that he had
seen better times. He wore no jewellery save a signet ring on one finger, and
paid no attention to his wife, although without her he would not have been
invited, for it was his wife who was a cousin of Lord Torkrow.

Mrs Harcourt
herself had an ill-humoured look. She, too, was dressed in expensive clothes
that had seen better days. She set about  abusing her maid, an elderly,
tired-looking woman, before declaring she had a headache and commanding
Helena
to send her an infusion
of camomile at once.

‘Of course,’
said
Helena
.

As she left
the room, Mr Harcourt cast a speculative glance in her direction.

‘Don’t send
any of the girls up to Mr and Mrs Harcourt’s room,’ she warned Mrs Beal, as she
entered the kitchen and set about making the tea.

‘I wouldn’t
think of it,’ said Mrs Beal with a snort. ‘We’ve had Mr Harcourt here before.
Mrs Carlisle had her work cut out for her, keeping him away from the maids.’

Helena
pitied her aunt, knowing
it could not have been easy. Her aunt would have been polite but strong and Mr
Harcourt . . . . her thoughts stopped. What would Mr Harcourt have done if her
aunt had crossed him?

‘When was Mr
Harcourt last here?’ she asked.

‘Not for a
long time, at least not to stay. He visits the castle from time to time on
county business, but his lordship won’t have him here overnight if it can be
helped.’

Helena
dropped a handful of
camomile flowers in the pot and poured the water on to them.

‘And when did
he last come on business?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know.
I don’t see him come and go. I’m down in my kitchen, and glad of it. Dawkins
shows him in and out.’

Helena
resolved to speak to
Dawkins about it when she had a chance. If Mr Harcourt had been at the castle
on the day of her aunt’s disappearance, perhaps he had had something to do with
it.

‘Are there any
more guests I need to be wary of?’ asked
Helena
, as she set a cup and saucer on a
tray.

‘Stay away
from Lady Jassry. She’s a tongue as sharp as my kitchen knife, and Mrs Yorke
will likely accuse you of stealing her jewels if you go in her room. But the
others are mostly well behaved.’

Helena
gave the tray to the
oldest village woman, a stoutly-made matron of ample girth, and told her to
carry it upstairs.

She was kept
busy throughout the afternoon as carriages rolled up at the door, spilling out
their guests. They were elegant and well dressed, and were accompanied by
valets and maids, who hastened to do everything to ensure the comfort of their
masters and mistresses, whilst managing to banter between themselves.

Helena
was kept busy showing
guests to their rooms and making sure that the servants knew where they were to
eat and sleep. Many had been to the castle before, but for some it was their
first time, and twice
Helena
came across tearful maids who were lost in the castle’s
corridors.

Mrs Beal was
like three women, seeing to the roasting and boiling of meats, overseeing the
preparation of mountains of vegetables, putting the finishing touches to the
pies and puddings that had already been made, and were in the pantry, ready for
their grand entrance at the end of dinner. She chivvied the maids who were
making the tea and checked each tray before it left the kitchen, making sure
there was a good selection of cakes and biscuits to go to each room.

The musicians
arrived. They knew where to go, having played at the castle before, and they
established themselves in the minstrels’ gallery, tuning their instruments
before trying out a variety of tunes.

The holiday
atmosphere was infectious, and for the first time
Helena
saw the castle as it must have been
when Lord Torkrow’s parents were still alive. Every downstairs room was open,
and every bedroom in the west wing. The dust sheets had gone and the fires had
been lit. The candelabras were set in front of polished mirrors that reflected
the dancing light.

At last, the
overnight guests had all arrived, and were safely in their rooms.
Helena
retired to the kitchen,
where she and Mrs Beal had a sandwich and a slice of pie before turning their
attention to preparing dinner for Lord Torkrow’s guests.

‘I’ll be glad
when dinner’s over,’ said Mrs Beal. ‘Then we can get on with laying supper out
in the dining-room.’

Four o’clock
arrived, and dinner was
served to Lord Torkrow and his guests. Mrs Beal waited impatiently for them to
finish, and as soon as they had left the dining-room and retired to their
bedchambers to prepare for the ball, she began to organise the maids and footmen,
who quickly cleared dinner and then started carrying the less delicate supper
foods upstairs.

At
seven o’clock
,
Helena
paused for breath, looking over the
groaning tables. The white damask cloths could barely be seen beneath silver
platters, candelabras and crystal bowls on tall stems containing pyramids of
fruit.

At ten minutes
to eight, Lord Torkrow appeared in the hall. He was dressed in a black tailcoat
with black pantaloons.

‘Is everything
ready?’ he asked
Helena
,
as she hurried through the hall.

‘Yes, my
lord.’

The sound of a
carriage crunching on the gravel outside could be heard.
Helena
glanced to the door.
Dawkins was there, dressed in his best livery, ready to open it.
Helena
had taken the precaution
of locking the door to the west wing of the attic so that he could not get on
to the battlements, and if he had noticed, he had not said so. Indeed, how
could he mention it, without revealing that he had a reason for wanting to go
there? The ruse had kept him sober, and as a loud knock came at the door he
opened it with aplomb.

It was the
Fairdeans who had arrived.
Helena
showed them to the ladies’ withdrawing room, where their
maid helped them to remove their cloaks. Miss Fairdean looked exquisite in a
daring costume proclaiming her to be a wood nymph. The diaphanous material of
her gown was skilfully woven in different shades of blue and green which
changed with the light, giving a magical impression. She preened herself in
front of the mirror, ignoring
Helena
in the way she ignored the chairs and washstand, whilst her
maid and her mother both flattered her.

Helena
followed them out of the room, whereupon they sought out Lord Torkrow,
congratulating him on the splendour of the castle – ‘a magnificent sight’; his
attire – ‘so clever of you to resist the urge to dress up, I’m sure the rest of
us must seem like children to you’;  and his goodness in holding the ball –
‘for it must be quite a burden to you, but all your friends do so enjoy it’.

Helena
saw his look of contempt,
and thought that Miss Fairdean should say less if she wanted to attract him
more.

Helena
was kept busy as more and
more guests arrived. Footmen hurried past her, carrying trays of wine, the
musicians played lively airs, and the ballroom began to fill with dancers.

When all the
guests had arrived,
Helena
allowed herself a few quite minutes in the housekeeper’s room, glad of the
forethought that had led her to place a tray there so that she could refresh
herself before proceeding with her plan.

It was still
not too late to abandon the idea. If her masquerade was discovered, she could
find herself in danger. But if not, she could learn something useful.

She had a
small glass of ratafia and several biscuits. Her energy renewed, she was about
to go upstairs to change when the door opened and Mr Harcourt entered. He was
dressed as Don Juan, with a short black cloak over black trousers and white
shirt, and on his head he wore a black hat. Strings dangled from it, falling
loosely beneath his chin. His eyes were covered with a black mask, but
Helena
recognised him by the
ring on his finger and the smell of brandy on his breath.

‘I’ve been
waiting for this moment all evening,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d never get you
alone, and then I saw you slipping in here. All you seem to do is work. That
doesn’t seem fair, when everyone else is enjoying the ball.’

‘It is my
job,’ said
Helena
.

‘It doesn’t
have to be,’ he said, sitting down on a corner of the desk, with one foot
touching the floor and one foot left dangling. He leant forwards in a familiar
way. ‘There are better ways to earn a living. Easier, too. No more lighting
fires and cleaning grates.’

‘I am a
housekeeper. I do not light fires or clean grates,’ she told him coolly. ‘Now, 
if you will excuse me, I am just on my way to the ballroom.’

He stood up
and blocked her path.

‘It’s a pity
to see such a young woman wearing such an old gown,’ he said, stroking her
shoulder. ‘And a pretty woman, too. Such beautiful hair . . . so rich and thick
. . . It could be properly dressed, if you had a little money to play with.’

‘Is this the
way you always behave with housekeepers?’ she demanded, as she shrugged away
from him. ‘Did you insult Mrs Carlisle in this way too?’

‘Mrs
Carlisle?’

‘His
lordship’s previous housekeeper.’

He laughed.

‘I’d have had
to be desperate to do that. The women was old and sour, and fit for nothing but
drudgery. But you —’

‘Enough,’ said
Helena
.