Time of Blood. Robin Jarvis
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almost everything: floors, plasterwork, magnificently carved fireplace surrounds, internal lighting, even the kitchen was a newly built extension with every modern appliance Mrs Paddock could wish for. The old hall had resumed its position as a grand dwelling once more and for six years Dr Power and his family had lived there happily, well liked and respected by everyone, including their servants. And then, unexpectedly, in that summer of 1890, the news spread rapidly about the town that the Powers had returned to London, and Bagdale had been let to a mysterious foreign nobleman, the Marquess Darqueller, and his ward.
Grace’s shoes clicked smartly over the parquet floor of the entrance hall, which smelled agreeably of the turpentine, linseed oil and beeswax concoction she had polished it with yesterday. Passing a mirror, she paused briefly to check her appearance. She was more than presentable. Her face was clean and her auburn hair was neatly coiled beneath her white linen cap. At fifteen years old she was already a beauty and would bloom into even greater loveliness. Esme had called her an angel and had been in awe of her ‘churchy’ features, often joking she felt like a mucky potato next to a lily with sugar on. But Grace found her good looks an encumbrance; she was determined to make something of herself and paid no heed to the unwanted attentions of the ironmonger’s apprentice or the grocer’s boy, who both lived in hope that ‘the jammiest bit of jam in all Whitby’ would step out with them on one of her rare afternoons off. A childhood friend of hers, over on the East Cliff, spoke of nothing else but the wedding she planned to have one day. Grace wanted more from this life than that.
Ascending the impressive staircase to the first landing, she put the tray on a small side table and was about to tap on the door of the blue bedroom when she heard a sound that spiked a chill between her shoulders.
Across the landing, within the red bedroom, came the angry shaking of a cage’s metal bars.
Then a female voice, muffled by the closed door, said soothingly, ‘Shall I slice some cheek for you next, my sable princeling? Or would you prefer a cut of neck? There, you do enjoy it juicy and dripping, don’t you? Dearest pusskin, darling Catesby.’
Grace took a nervous step sideways and in doing so nudged the table. It banged against the wall and the voice fell silent. The girl bit her lip. Presently the door of the red bedroom opened slightly and a middle-aged woman’s sharp face appeared, with a pinched nose and dark, suspicious eyes.
‘Mrs Axmill,’ Grace said. ‘I was just taking the master’s ward his supper.’
The housekeeper withdrew her face in order to glance over her shoulder. The gas lamps in that room were turned down and Grace couldn’t make out anything except the domed silhouette of the cage. Without opening the door any wider, Mrs Axmill manoeuvred herself on to the landing, deftly sweeping the bustle of her prim black dress behind her. When she had turned the key in the lock, she directed her wintry stare at Grace once more.
‘That will be all, Flossy,’ she instructed. ‘I will take the tray in to Master Verne.’
‘It’s no trouble, Mrs Axmill.’
‘Has the summer heat made you deaf, girl?’
‘No, Mrs Axmill. There’s a baked apple dumpling to come as well.’
The pinched nose sniffed with distaste. ‘He won’t care for that,’ the housekeeper said flatly. ‘Don’t bother bringing it up.’
‘You sure? He must eat something, he’s wasting away, poor lamb. Could a doctor not be called?’
Mrs Axmill glared at her, stung by her impertinence.
‘Don’t speak out of turn, girl! It’s not your place to comment on the health and well-being of your employers. Return below and be about your duties. If you don’t have enough work to occupy your time, I can easily furnish you with more.’
Grace lowered her eyes to hide the insolent gleam which she knew would be burning in them. Her glance fell upon the starched white cuff jutting from the housekeeper’s sleeve. There was a vivid smear of blood across it.
‘You’ve cut yourself bad!’ she exclaimed.
The housekeeper looked down at her cuff in consternation and covered the bright scarlet streak with her hand.
‘Don’t be foolish,’ she rebuked her. ‘It’s from the meat I was feeding the marquess’s pet.’
‘Oh,’ Grace said, staring anxiously back at the red room’s closed door. ‘Can I ask, Mrs Axmill, what sort of creature is in there? I’ve heard how some lordly gentlemen keep savage beasts, like tigers and lions. In olden days they say the famous Captain Scoresby brought a polar bear back to Whitby aboard one of his whaling ships, and it escaped and rampaged through the town. It’s not a bear or lion in there, is it? I’m just fearful if the cage don’t prove all it should be and it gets loose . . .’
‘A bear? A lion? Can you hear how absurd you are, girl? I credited you with owning more wits than that. Nevertheless, the master’s pet darling is no concern of yours. Now, do as I’ve bid you.’
Grace hurried down the stairs obediently. She was glad to get away from the vicinity of that door, but her lively mind was troubled and those worries increased as the evening wore on.
Much later she lay in bed, too uncomfortable to sleep. The August weather had made the attics stifling, but remembering what Esme had said, she was afraid to open the skylight. And yet it wasn’t just the airless fug beneath the rafters that kept her awake.
She could not believe the young master would turn his nose up at an apple dumpling. What boy would? Either of her two little brothers, or any of the other tykes she had grown up with over on the East Cliff, would wolf it down in two great bites. For some time, Grace had harboured the unpleasant suspicion that Mrs Axmill was starving the child, and now Mrs Paddock was beginning to believe it too. Grace doubted if he had even seen the curried mutton. But why would the housekeeper do such a thing? And if he was genuinely sick, why refuse to call the doctor? Strong-willed and gentle-hearted, Grace refused to stand back and allow this to continue. She had resolved to do something about the situation, beginning this very night.
The other worry that kept sleep at bay concerned the meat Mrs Axmill had been feeding the unseen beast. The brightness of the blood told how fresh it was, but Grace was certain that, apart from the mutton shoulder which went into the curry, not so much as a cutlet had passed through the kitchen all that day or yesterday. So where had it come from?
It was just before midnight when she heard the coach bringing the marquess back to the hall. She felt sorry for Jed, the groom. He wouldn’t get any rest until the horses had been dealt with and the carriage washed of mud and the woodwork polished. Mrs Paddock had left some cold cuts in the kitchen if they hadn’t fed him in the servants’ hall of Mulgrave Castle, but knowing Jed, he’d eat them even if they had.
Grace crept to her door and opened it slightly. Sounds carried easily up the great central stairwell of Bagdale Hall. She heard heavy boots striding through the entrance far below and two voices. One was Mrs Axmill; she had waited up for the marquess’s return. Grace pulled a face. The way the housekeeper fawned over the new master was nauseating. The other voice belonged to the marquess himself. In spite of the heat, Grace shivered. In private his manner was arrogant and ugly, yet she had heard how it changed in the presence of visitors. ‘Like wedding cake dipped in honey,’ Mrs Paddock had described it, and she was right.
Standing in her nightdress, her hair hanging loose past her shoulders, the girl continued to listen. The boots stomped up the stairs to the landing below. There was a barked command, dismissing Mrs Axmill, then Grace heard the red bedroom being unlocked. The noises grew indistinct and she knew he had gone in to see his savage pet. Some minutes later the sounds were clearer as he emerged once more, but who was he speaking to now?
The girl opened her door a little wider and put her head out. The cramped attic landing was pitch-dark, but a bobbing radiance below made the banisters stand out stark and black. Grace guessed the marquess was carrying an oil lamp.
‘One night soon,’ he snapped, ‘the parcel will be delivered