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“Over eighty? Then this man must have been his son… or grandson, perhaps?”
“Billings has no children.”
“An under-gamekeeper? Apprentice?”
Sir Owen chuckled. “Miss Fletcher, I believe it is possible that you may have encountered our younger son, James. He is often out with a gun.”
“Oh yes, the kitchen maid called him Master James!” Julia laughed heartily. “Well, how foolish of me! Now that I think about it, he was remarkably well-spoken for a gamekeeper. So he is your son? He never mentioned it. What a good joke, but he was bringing pheasant and duck to our kitchen, you see, so what else was I to think?”
“Really, Julia!” Mama said, flushing a little. “How could you possibly think Sir Owen’s son was a gamekeeper? I must apologise for my stepdaughter, Lady Plummer, Sir Owen. Her manners as yet lack a little polish, I regret to say.”
“No need at all for any apology, Mrs Fletcher,” Sir Owen said, smiling. “It is an understandable mistake, for James wears the most disreputable garments when he is out shooting, and no one would take him for a gentleman in the least. Mr Fletcher has been so very obliging as to allow us to shoot on his land, both for our own table and for his, and James has taken this licence to heart. But perhaps you gentlemen shoot, or mean to take up the sport? We would be delighted to show you the best coveys, if so.”
“I shoot a little,” Will said eagerly. “I should be very glad of some advice on the sport to be had here.”
“It would be our pleasure to introduce you to the best this part of Hertfordshire can offer. I cannot speak for James, but Michael and I will be out tomorrow. Perhaps you would care to join us, sir?”
While Will responded with enthusiasm and Mama fluttered under these pretty courtesies, Julia looked from one to another of the Plummers, these people who had lived in Chadwell Park until a few short weeks ago and were now their nearest neighbours. Sir Owen was a man of the most gentlemanly appearance, tall, upright, his manner of speech clipped but not in an unfriendly way, she thought. Whereas Lady Plummer dripped with disdain, her mouth set in a rigid line that would almost certainly melt into a sneer if she allowed her dignity to drop for a fraction of a second. The third member of their party, Mr Michael Plummer, must be the eldest son and heir. He was perhaps thirty, tall, like his father, but pale and spindly, his expression nervous.
Sir Owen said something to Angie, but before she could respond, Julia said, “Where is Rosie? Shouldn’t she be here too?”
An expression that might have been exasperation crossed Mama’s features. “She could not be found. The footmen have looked everywhere. When you have changed out of your muddy clothes, perhaps you might see if you can find her.”
It was a clear dismissal, which Julia was not loath to obey. With a quick curtsy, she scurried out of the room, although she had no idea where to go. The bedrooms would be upstairs, no doubt. Quick steps took her to the stairs, which she took two at a time. Up above, more doors lined the long landing, all closed. Shrugging, she began to open one after another. The first two were empty, the furniture shrouded in holland covers, although she saw the schoolroom boxes piled in one of them. In the third, she surprised two maids busy making up the bed. Johnny’s boxes sat opened on the floor, half emptied, but there was no sign of his valet. A fire burning fitfully did nothing to drive away the chill. The two maids stared at her, seeming not unfriendly but not welcoming, either.
“I wonder—?” she began, but an exclamation behind her caused her to spin round. The housekeeper stood there, a pile of towels in her arms, her expression downright hostile.
“What are you doing here?” she said frostily, making no attempt to curtsy.
“Looking for my room,” Julia said. “Perhaps you can—?”
“I have no idea,” she said curtly. “The young persons chose their own rooms.”
“Yes, but—”
Johnny’s valet came in at that moment, carrying a ewer of steaming water, and Julia smiled in relief. “Ah, Matlock, which is my room, do you know?”
“Aye, t’one directly across t’way, Miss Julia,” he said, his Yorkshire accent a little burst of home. “I’ll show you.”
“Thank you.” He held the door for her, but Julia paused, turning to the housekeeper. “What is your name?”
“Mrs Graham, miss.”
“Do you know who I am?”
She flushed. “You’re Miss Julia Fletcher, miss.”
“Correct. That makes me the daughter of your master and mistress. If you should encounter me in future, you will kindly remember that, and curtsy to me. You will also teach the maids to do so. Is that understood?”
The housekeeper turned beetroot red. “Yes, Miss Julia.” She dropped into a curtsy, and the two maids did likewise, as Julia swept out of the room.
Her own room turned out to be very much the same, except that the bed remained unmade, her boxes unopened and the fire was as yet unlit. She shivered, not used to such neglected rooms. At home, her bedroom had a fire burning all day at this time of year.
“Glory be, these rooms are freezing,” Matlock muttered, kneeling to light the fire. “What they’re about not making up t’beds or lighting t’fires, I can’t think. It’s as if they weren’t expecting us.”
“What are things like below stairs, Matlock? Are they helpful?”
The valet looked up, wrinkling his nose. “I wouldn’t say that, exactly. If you ask where summat is, they point you t’right way, but they none of them go out o’ their way to show you anything. Too busy rushing about themselves. There, that’ll warm things up a bit.” The fire blazed up cheerily. “Shall I send Sarah to help you change, Miss?”
