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Chapter 20
Abigail was let loose in a wing of the house after lunch, armed with a dustpan and brush, a mop and bucket, several cloths, numerous bottles of cleaning products and fragrant furniture sprays, and the Henry Hoover. She had never realised that cleaning could be so complicated. By the time the housekeeper had told her which cleaning product was to be used on which surface, in which room, and with which cloth, Abigail’s head was spinning. She tried not to let on, but just nodded as the housekeeper loaded all the items into a blue trolley as though she understood and would remember every word. Her trolley reminded her of the ones she’d seen wheeled around by cleaners in the office building where she worked in London. They’d arrive just before everyone left for the day. Abigail and other employees often worked late, with the sound of bins being emptied, mops on floors and Henry Hoovers interrupting their concentration.
Abigail pushed the trolley into the service lift and got out at the first floor, as instructed by the housekeeper. She was glad there was a lift. Apparently, they had been installed for the family, but someone had seen the necessity to have one added for the staff too.
She was thinking about this strange turn of events. She was on compassionate leave, taking time out from the routine of work to figure her head out after Toby’s death, and here she was with a cleaning job. Actually, Abigail realised she had two jobs; she’d promised Lili she would return to The Potting Shed and look at her accounts. She frowned, recalling the incident at Lili’s shop when she had been rude to a customer. Nevertheless, she hadn’t appreciated his demeanour.
Abigail slowly wheeled the trolley along a carpeted corridor, thinking about her fifteen-minute break later that afternoon. She had a feeling it was going to be a long two hours until break time. There were a lot of rooms – Abigail poked her head inside the ones she was not meant to be cleaning. She didn’t see another soul in those grand old rooms. The rooms had big, ornate fireplaces of marble and wood, rich carpets with faded patterns, and wallpaper from bygone eras. There were some items from bygone eras too. Abigail spotted a large radio and an old-fashioned record player.
She was still trying to find the room she was meant to be cleaning. The housekeeper called it The Blue Room. Up ahead, Abigail heard a creak of floorboards and footsteps. She hurried forward, hoping to catch someone – anyone. She heard a door close up ahead. ‘Bother.’ She’d missed them. Abigail slowed down. The trolley was heavy, so she stopped for a breather outside another room and opened the door. She could understand why some people would be interested in tours of the house; if they loved National Trust properties, they’d loved this.
Some of the small, framed family photos on display in the reception rooms fascinated Abigail. From the way things were staged, she got the impression these were the rooms that were open to the public as part of their paid tour. She realised with disappointment that this wing would probably tell her nothing much about the current Somerville family. The photos were all very old, although she recognised one face in what appeared to be a family group photo. She picked up the photo frame and studied it for a moment. ‘Daphne,’ she said out loud. She looked in her late teens or early twenties, at the most.
Sometimes it was hard to tell in old photographs, but it was definitely her. She had different clothes on than the ones Abigail had seen her wearing in the home movies. She wore a white dress, down to her ankles, and her long, silky black hair was worn down, not up like the other women in the photo. One woman – her mother, perhaps – was sitting next to a stern-looking old man. Her grandmother was in another seat. Abigail spotted a tall, handsome, dark-haired man, standing with one hand in his blazer pocket. Daphne’s brother, perhaps.
Abigail remembered to place the framed photo back where she’d found it before moving on to another room further along the corridor. She wondered what other family photos she might find. She noticed this room was a bedroom, complete with a made-up double bed. Its throws and cushions brought it into the modern age, but she didn’t like the bedroom suite of furniture. The wardrobe, bedside cabinets and dressing table appeared to be made of a mellow oak. She could tell the G-plan furnishings were quite old – a throwback to the sixties, she imagined. From what she’d seen in the shops, this sort of thing appeared to be coming back in fashion. She still didn’t much care for it, though.
She was about to close the door when something caught her eye. It was a painting on the wall by the window. Although she felt like stepping inside to take a closer look, something crossed her mind: who was to say this wasn’t somebody’s actual bedroom? She had yet to find out how many bedrooms were in the house. A lot of them must be guest rooms, but she wasn’t sure whether this was one of them. She noticed that the carpet and the faded patterned wallpaper were blue.
‘Hello?’ She gingerly stepped into the room when no one answered and walked up to the large painting on the wall. The young woman in the painting was beautiful, with mousy brown hair, large dark eyes, a slender nose, and an exquisite unblemished complexion touched with a hint of blush. Of course, it was only a painting, and most artists commissioned to paint a portrait wanted to get paid, so she imagined they would portray their subjects in the most flattering light possible. But if the painting bore any similarity to its subject, then the woman had been stunning.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’
Lili whirled around at the sound of a man’s voice behind her. The older man was standing in the doorway, one hand in his blazer pocket, eyeing her coldly.
‘Er, I’m cleaning.’ She felt like adding,what does it look like?Then she thought better of coming out with a smart remark. The man’s hand in his blazer pocket made him seem familiar.
‘What do you mean –cleaning? This room is out of bounds.’
It was lucky for Abigail that the room was blue. ‘I’m new. Sorry, I was looking for The Blue Room.’
‘Well, it isn’t. Get out!’
Abigail was taken aback by his incredibly rude manner. She knew who he was now. The hand in the blazer pocket gave him away. She was convinced she was speaking with Lord Somerville. She didn’t care if he was a lord; he shouldn’t speak to a fellow human being that way, whatever his station in life. There was no excuse not to be civil and kind.
Before she had time to consider the possibility she might just lose Emily her job, Abigail blurted, ‘That’s no way to speak to me – or anybody, for that matter. I made a mistake, alright? How was I to know this wasn’t The Blue Room? It’s blue, for god’s sake! And excuse me for stopping to look at a portrait of an exceptionally beautiful young woman!’
Unbeknown to Abigail, walking up the corridor towards them was the housekeeper, coming to check on how she was getting on. She stopped dead and put her hand to her mouth in shock when she heard Abigail telling off Lord Somerville.God almighty, she thought,I’m in trouble.
She’d done her good friend, Abigail’s mother, a favour by letting Abigail do her sister’s shifts for a few days. But she didn’t know Abigail. How was she to know she was a loose cannon? Of course, it might have been helpful if she’d warned Abigail to avoid crossing paths with the old curmudgeon, but she hadn’t expected theywouldcross paths. She should have known he might venture into his late wife’s former bedroom, which he no longer used but kept as a shrine to her. But she hadn’t expected Abigail to be anywhere near that bedroom. Abigail had obviously exited the lift and turned in the wrong direction.
Neither Abigail nor Lord Somerville, who were too busy eyeing each other in a standoff, had spotted the housekeeper standing a few feet away, holding her breath.
‘Nobody ever speaks to me like that!’ Lord Somerville spat.
‘Perhaps it’s time somebody did.’ Abigail inwardly cringed, although she thought she might as well speak her mind. The damage was done anyway; she wouldn’t be coming back for another shift tomorrow.
The housekeeper looked horrified. She undid her apron as she approached, thinking that Abigail wasn’t the only one who would be out of a job that day. She was about to intervene and apologise profusely, saying that she’d send Abigail straight home, when she stopped in shock at the sound of Lord Somerville laughing. She rarely saw him smile, let alone laugh.
‘I don’t see what’s so funny,’ Abigail added.
The housekeeper rolled her eyes.Will she ever shut up?she wondered.
Lord Somerville wiped his eyes. ‘And you had to get the last word.’
‘No, I didn’t.’ She stopped and smiled sheepishly. ‘Sorry.’
He looked at her, aghast. ‘Don’t start apologising now, for goodness’ sake! I was finding it very refreshing, being put in my place.’ His eyes shifted to the painting on the wall. ‘I used to know someone just like you who would—’ He halted abruptly.
