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‘And it’s costing a small fortune. Surely that sort of money could be spent on improvements for the castle, or clothes for the children.’
Rosalind folded the satin ball gown and laid it in the trunk. ‘Nancy has been educated to be a young lady. She will need a maid to attend her. I was thinking that Molly might be the most sensible choice.’
‘Why would a schoolgirl need a lady’s maid? Really, Rosie, this is getting out of hand.’
Nancy could stand it no longer. She rose from her seat, snatched up her bonnet, and escaped from her bedroom, leaving Rosalind to deal with Hester. Neither of them had thought to ask her which of the servants she would like to accompany her.
Nancy made her way down the spiral stairs leading to the main landing and the grand staircase, where ancestors of the Careys gazed down from their portraits with sightless eyes. A sound in the entrance hall drew her attention to Abel Wolfe, a giant of a man, who had lost one eye in a fight many years ago. Wolfe was never forthcoming about his past, but he was Sir Bertram’s devoted personal servant and everyone treated him with a degree of respect. Wolfe pushed the Bath chair over the threshold, taking care not to jolt his master too much.
Jarvis closed the main door and stood aside, casting a surreptitious glance in Wolfe’s direction. Nancy suspected that Jarvis did not approve of Wolfe, but the old butler was tight-lipped and too tactful to voice his own opinions. The hierarchy at Rockwood Castle was strict, unbending and observed by almost everyone.
‘Good morning, Nancy,’ Sir Bertram said cheerfully. ‘It’s a lovely day for a walk.’
‘I’m going to visit Patsy.’
Sir Bertram winked at her. ‘Getting away from the fuss upstairs, I expect. Good for you, Nancy. When in doubt, take cover.’
‘Time for your medicine, Sir Bertram,’ Wolfe growled. ‘You’ve had too much sun today.’
‘Balderdash, Wolfe. I’m as fit as a fiddle, even if I have to sit in this damned contraption all the time. I’ll have a tot of brandy and a cigar.’
Jarvis opened the door and stood stiffly to attention, staring straight ahead as Nancy stepped outside. Putting on her straw bonnet, she headed across the cobbled bailey and out through the tall wrought-iron gates. The sun beat down with the intensity of a hot June day. The air smelled sweetly of newly mown hay, garden flowers and a tang of brine from the sea. Sunlight sparkled on the swiftly running waters of the River Sawle as Nancy crossed the bridge. The Rockwood estate covered many acres of rolling countryside and farmland, and included the whole village. The wood on her left looked cool and green, a tempting area of shade away from the blazing sun, but she ignored its siren call and walked on, past the smithy and the wheelwright’s workshop. The sawmill was next, and the cottage that had once housed the manager had been completely rebuilt by Leo Wilder so that it was a home fit for him and his wife, Patricia. Nancy knew that she would miss all this more than she would have thought possible.
She quickened her pace until she reached the house, hoping that Patricia would be at home. Each time she visited there was something different to admire. The picket fence surrounding the garden had been painted white, and the flowerbeds were filled with hollyhocks and lupins. The scent from Patricia’s favourite rose bushes wafted on the warm air, and the whirring of the machinery in the mill was at odds with the birdsong and the gentle rustle of the leaves ruffled by the summer breeze.
Nancy’s knock on the door was answered by Fletcher, a servant with a criminal past, who had been rehabilitated and was now more protective of the family than any guard dog. Fletcher’s granite features rarely broke a smile and today was no exception.
‘Yes?’ Fletcher’s gravelly voice was not welcoming.
‘Is Mrs Wilder at home?’
‘I’ll see.’ Fletcher slammed the door, leaving Nancy standing on the step.
Nancy sighed and let herself into the house anyway. She was used to Fletcher’s ways. No amount of tactful comments or out-and-out criticism seemed to make any difference. Fletcher was never going to change, but she was devoted to the family and entirely trustworthy.
‘Patricia,’ Nancy called, crossing the spacious hallway. She opened the parlour door and was met by Fletcher, standing arms akimbo. The tattoos on her forearms gleamed in a shaft of sunlight, and her grey hair shone like polished steel.
‘Did I say the missis would see you?’
‘It’s all right, Fletcher,’ Patricia said sharply. ‘You know I am always at home to my family.’
Fletcher rolled her eyes. ‘Most families in my experience avoid each other like the plague.’
‘I’ve told you a dozen times not to close the door and leave my visitors outside, unless it’s someone we really don’t wish to see.’ Patricia patted a space on the window seat. ‘Come and sit down, Nancy. Would you like some lemonade or a cup of tea?’
‘Lemonade would be lovely. It’s really hot today.’
Patricia gave Fletcher a stern look. ‘Lemonade for two, please, Fletcher.’
‘You ain’t Lady Greystone now, and I ain’t no skivvy,’ Fletcher grumbled as she left the room.
Patricia sighed. ‘I don’t know why I keep her on, except that she’s really good at helping in the mill, especially if we get a difficult customer.’
‘Not many people would have employed Fletcher,’ Nancy said, laughing. ‘Rosalind takes in all the waifs and strays.’
‘My sister has a soft heart. She met Fletcher at a particularly difficult time in her life. We’ve all endured harrowing experiences in the past, as you well remember.’
Nancy sat down beside her. ‘It was hard sometimes when we were in London, but I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.’
