The Emerald Comb. Kathleen McGurl
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feet. ‘But a warm foot-bath sounds just what I need. Perhaps, Mr St Clair, you would help me rub some life back into my toes?’ She looked up at him, a half-smile flirting with the corners of her mouth.
But Bartholomew was still gazing in the direction the maid had taken. For all Miss Holland’s coquettish ways, she was young and immature. Bartholomew was no stranger to women – he’d been near to proposing once to a merchant’s daughter in Bath, but she had accepted a better offer from a baronet’s son. He’d had a brief affair with the bored wife of a naval captain, until she tired also of him. And of course, there had been plenty of women of the night, who waited outside the Assembly Rooms to accompany lone men to their lodgings.
None of these women, however, had ever had quite the effect on him that the maid, Agnes, had. A thrill had run through him the moment his eyes met hers, leaving him hot with desire, his palms tingling, his heart racing. She was returning now, with the basin of water. She glared again at Bartholomew.
‘Sir, you are still here? You may think me bold to suggest it, but I think you ought to leave, afore the snow becomes too deep for cabs. I can ask the footman to fetch you a brandy if you need fortification before venturing out.’
He felt his blood thrill again at the forthrightness of the woman. A lady’s maid, who thought nothing of speaking to guests in her employer’s house, as though they were her wayward sons.
‘A brandy would be excellent, yes.’ He nodded at her, and she pulled on the bell-cord. A moment later a footman arrived, and Agnes sent him for the brandy. He was back a minute later, closely followed by Charles Holland, who had exchanged his captain’s jacket for a woollen dressing gown.
‘Is that my niece back home at last? What do you think you are doing, keeping my staff up and waiting for you on such a night?’ He stopped in his tracks when he noticed Bartholomew. ‘Ah, I see. Sir, I thank you for bringing her home. Please, call on her again tomorrow morning. You will be most welcome.’ He nodded curtly and left.
Georgia smiled up at him. ‘You will come back tomorrow, won’t you? As my uncle said, you will be made most welcome.’
Bartholomew started. He’d almost forgotten about Georgia. The maid, Agnes, had filled his mind completely. But maids don’t have money, he reminded himself. And it was money he needed most. He dragged his gaze away from Agnes and returned Georgia’s smile.
‘Miss Georgia, you are forgetting yourself,’ scolded Agnes. ‘Come, dry your feet. I will help you upstairs. Sir, please ring the bell should you require anything more.’
Bartholomew gulped back the brandy brought by the footman, relishing the fiery warmth it brought to his belly. He watched as the two women crossed the black-and-white tiled hallway and made their way up the stairs. Each of them gave him one backwards glance – Miss Holland’s smile was cheeky and inviting; the maid’s glare was challenging, but with a half-smile and a raised eyebrow as though she had guessed the effect she’d had on him.
Without a doubt he would return tomorrow. And the day after, and the day after that. He left his empty glass on a side table and let himself out of the house. Thankfully the cab was still there, though the cabman grumbled about how long he’d had to wait in the dreadful weather. Bartholomew gave the address of his lodgings in Kemptown and sat back, huddled in his cloak, planning his ideal future which involved both of the women he’d met that night.
I followed Vera Delamere through a tired 1970s kitchen into a large wood-panelled hallway, and then through to a cosy sitting room. She flicked on the lights, and crouched at the fireplace which was already laid with a mixture of logs and coal. As she struck a match, Harold shuffled in and sat down beside the fire, leaning his stick against the side of the mantelpiece.
‘Good-oh, we could do with a bit of warmth in here,’ he said, and she turned to smile fondly at him. They’d obviously been together for a very long time. I hoped Simon and I would be like them, one day. If we managed to resolve our differences and stay together long enough.
I looked around the room. A large built-in shelving unit occupied one wall. It was made of dark wood, and was clearly very old. It was beautiful.
‘That was here when we moved in,’ Mrs Delamere said, nodding at the shelves. ‘Riddled with woodworm, unfortunately, though we have had it treated.’
‘It’s gorgeous. I wonder if it was here when my ancestors lived here?’
‘I’ll go and make the tea,’ said Vera. ‘Sit down, Katie, do. By the fire, there. It’ll get going in a moment.’
I sat opposite Harold in a well-worn fireside chair. ‘This is a lovely cosy room.’
Harold nodded. ‘We think this was originally a study. There’s a much bigger sitting room across the hall, but it’s too hard to heat it. When there’s only Vera and me, this room’s just right for us. So, you’re a St Clair, are you? I thought old Barty hadn’t had any children. Certainly no one to leave the house to.’
‘You’re right, he didn’t. I’m descended from his younger brother, William.’
‘Ah, that would explain it,’ said Harold, nodding with satisfaction.
Vera bustled in with the tea tray. She gave it to Harold to balance on his lap for a moment as she tugged at a shelf in the old unit. It folded out, creating a desk, and she put the tea tray on it.
We chatted comfortably about the history of the house and my research while we drank the tea, then Vera offered me a tour of the house.
Harold had fallen asleep in his chair, his head nodding forward onto his chest. Vera gently took his tea cup out of his hand and put it on a side table. I followed her back into the huge hallway. ‘Are you sure you don’t mind showing me around? I must admit I’m dying to see the house.’
‘Oh, it’s quite all right. Lovely to have a visitor, if truth be told. Well, here’s the living room. Drawing room, I suppose I should call it.’
She ushered me into a large, cold room, with a window to the front of the house. It had a grand fireplace which looked original, brown floral seventies carpet and cream woodchip wallpaper. Family photographs showing a younger Vera and Harold with two cheeky-looking boys jostled for position on the mantelpiece, and heavy crushed-velvet curtains hung at the window.
‘We don’t come in here much, except in the summer when it’s the coolest room in the house,’ Vera said.
She led the way back through the hallway and into the dining room I’d peered into from outside. I crossed to the window and looked out. The garden was surprisingly small for such a large old house, and I commented on this.
‘It would have had much more land originally,’ Vera explained. ‘Most of it was sold off before we moved in. There would have been stables and other outbuildings – we think those stood where Stables Close is now. But what’s left is a lovely garden. It catches the evening sun. And we’re very fond of that tree.’ She pointed to a huge beech which stood against a crumbling garden wall.
‘I bet your children enjoyed climbing that,’ I said.
‘Oh, they did, they did! Tim would be sitting up there where the main trunk forks, and Mike would push past him and go up higher. I couldn’t watch, but Harold always thought it was better for boys to climb trees than artificial climbing frames in sterile playgrounds.’
I laughed. ‘My dad always says the same thing. My sister and I were both tomboys and spent half our childhoods up trees.’
‘Good for you! I think it’s essential for children to play outside. Shall we continue with the tour?’
She took me down a dark corridor to the