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“Maybe.” Percival was ostentatiously uninterested. “Not sure I want to stay in this house anyway.”
Hester knew that was a calculated rebuff, but she did not dare peer around the corner in case the movement was noticed. She stood still, leaning back against the piles of sheets on the shelf behind her and holding her aprons tightly. She could imagine the sudden cold feeling inside Rose. She remembered something much the same in the hospital in Scutari. There had been a doctor whom she admired, no, more than that, about whom she indulged in daydreams, imagined foolishness. And one day he had shattered them all with a dismissive word. For weeks afterwards she had turned it over and over in her mind, trying to decide whether he had meant it, even done it on purpose, bruising her feelings. That thought had sent waves of hot shame over her. Or had he been quite unaware and simply betrayed a side of his nature which had been there all the time—and which was better seen before she had committed herself too far. She would never know, and now it hardly mattered.
Rose said nothing. Hester did not even hear an indrawn breath.
“After all,” Percival went on, adding to it, justifying himself, “this isn’t the best house right now—police coming and going, asking questions. All London knows there’s been a murder. And what’s more, someone here did it. They won’t stop till they find them, you know.”
“Well if they don’t, they
won’t let you go—will they?” Rose said spitefully. “After all—it might be you.”
That must have been a thrust which struck home. For several seconds Percival was silent, then when he did speak his voice was sharp with a distinct edge, a crack of nervousness.
“Don’t be stupid! What would any of us do that for? It must have been one of the family. The police aren’t that easily fooled. That’s why they’re still here.”
“Oh yes? And questioning us?” Rose retorted. “If that’s so, what do they think we’re going to tell them?”
“It’s just an excuse.” The certainty was coming back now. “They have to pretend it’s us. Can you imagine what Sir Basil would say if they let on they suspected the family?”
“Nothing ’e could say!” She was still angry. “Police can go anywhere they want.”
“Of course it’s one of the family.” Now he was contemptuous. “And I’ve got a few ideas who—and why. I know a few things—but I’d best say nothing; the police’ll find out one of these days. Now I’ve got work to do, and so ’ave you.” And he pushed on past her and around the corner. Hester stepped into the doorway so she was not discovered overhearing.
“Oh yes,” Mary said, her eyes flashing as she flipped out a pillowcase and folded it. “Rose has a rare fancy for Percival. Stupid girl.” She reached for another pillow slip and examined the lace to make sure it was intact before folding it to iron and put away. “He’s nice enough looking, but what’s that worth? He’d make a terrible husband, vain as a cockerel and always looking to his own advantage. Like enough leave her after a year or two. Roving eye, that one, and spiteful. Now Harold’s a much better man—but then he wouldn’t look at Rose; he never sees anyone but Dinah. Been eating his heart out for her for the last year and a half, poor boy.” She put the pillow slip away and started on a pile of lace-edged petticoats, wide enough to fall over the huge hoops that kept skirts in the ungainly but very flattering crinoline shape. At least that shape was considered charming by those who liked to look dainty and a little childlike. Personally Hester would have preferred something very much more practical, and more natural in shape. But she was out of step with fashion—not for the first time.
“And Dinah’s got her eye on next door’s footman,” Mary went on, straightening the ruffles automatically. “Although I can’t see anything in him, excepting he’s tall, which is nice, seein’ as Dinah’s so tall herself. But height’s no comfort on a cold night. It doesn’t keep you warm, and it can’t make you laugh. I expect you met some fine soldiers when you were in the army?”
Hester knew the question was kindly meant, and she answered it in the same manner.
“Oh several.” She smiled. “Unfortunately they were a trifle incapacitated at the time.”
“Oh.” Mary laughed and shook her head as she came to the end of her mistress’s clothes from this wash. “I suppose they would be. Never mind. If you work in houses like this, there’s no telling who you might meet.” And with that hopeful remark she picked up the bundle and carried it out, walking jauntily towards the stairs with a sway of her hips.
Hester smiled and finished her own task, then went to the kitchen to prepare a tisane for Beatrice. She was taking the tray back upstairs when she passed Septimus coming out of the cellar door, one arm folded rather awkwardly across his chest as though he were carrying something concealed inside his jacket.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Thirsk,” Hester said cheerfully, as if he had every business in the cellar.
“Er—good afternoon, Miss—er—er …”
“Latterly,” she supplied. “Lady Moidore’s nurse.”
“Oh yes—of course.” He blinked his washed-out blue eyes. “I do beg your pardon. Good afternoon, Miss Latterly.” He moved to get away from the cellar door, still looking extremely uncomfortable.
Annie, one of the upstairs maids, came past and gave Septimus a knowing look and smiled at Hester. She was tall and slender, like Dinah. She would have made a good parlormaid, but she was too young at the moment and raw at fifteen, and she might always be too opinionated. Hester had caught her and Maggie giggling together more than once in the maids’ room on the first landing, where the morning tea was prepared, or in the linen cupboard bent double over a penny dreadful book, their eyes out like organ stops as they pored over the scenes of breathless romance and wild dangers. Heaven knew what was in their imaginations. Some of their speculations over the murder had been more colorful than credible.
“Nice child, that,” Septimus said absently. “Her mother’s a pastry cook over in Portman Square, but I don’t think you’ll ever make a cook out of her. Daydreamer.” There was affection in his voice. “Likes to listen to stories about the army.” He shrugged and nearly let slip the bottle under his arm. He blushed and grabbed at it.
Hester smiled at him. “I know. She’s asked me lots of questions. Actually I think both she and Maggie would make good nurses. They’re just the sort of girls we need, intelligent and quick, and with minds of their own.”
Septimus looked taken aback, and Hester guessed he was used to the kind of army medical care that had prevailed before Florence Nightingale, and all these new ideas were outside his experience.
“Maggie’s a good girl too,” he said with a frown of puzzlement. “A lot more common sense. Her mother’s a laundress somewhere in the country. Welsh, I think. Accounts for the temper. Very quick temper, that girl, but any amount of patience when it’s needed. Sat up all night looking after the gardener’s cat when it was sick, though, so I suppose you’re right, she’d be a good enough nurse. But it seems a pity to put two decent girls into that trade.” He wriggled discreetly to move the bottle under his jacket high enough for it not to be noticed, and knew that he had failed. He was totally unaware of having insulted her profession; he was speaking frankly from the reputation he knew and had not even thought of her as being part of it.
Hester was torn between saving him embarrassment and learning all she could. Saving him won. She looked away from the lump under his jacket and continued as if she had not observed it.
“Thank you. Perhaps I shall suggest it to them one day. Of course I had rather you did not mention my idea to the housekeeper.”
His face twitched in half-mock, half-serious alarm.
