‘And what makes you think that?’ demanded Emily, watching him take off his coat and roll up his sleeves.
‘You are not the kind to have adventures,’ he said. ‘You think too much about yourself. People who think of others somehow make for themselves an adventurous life.’
‘But I do think of others!’ exclaimed Emily, cut to the quick.
He gave her a gentle push aside and lifted a bucket of hot water from the floor and poured it into the sink. ‘Who, for instance?’
‘For instance,’ whispered Emily, ‘poor little Mrs Bisley. She must not marry that captain.’
‘And how do you think that can be prevented?’
Emily’s eyes shone. ‘You could challenge him to a duel.’
‘I do not duel with such as Captain Seaton. In fact, I go to extreme lengths to avoid duels.’
He handed Emily a dish to dry.
‘So,’ said Emily, rubbing the plate vigorously, ‘you are afraid, my lord.’
‘What heroes of the corner chimney-seat you ladies are! If you yourselves were in danger of having a yard of cold steel or a bullet through you in the early hours of the morning, it might change your attitude. Besides, I do not wish to seem to brag, but I am an expert shot and a tolerably good swordsman. Although I have been in many battles, strange as it may seem, I do not relish killing, nor, for that matter, should I kill someone in a duel, would I relish having to flee the country.’
‘Well, you think of something,’ said Emily pettishly.
‘Intimacy, Miss Freemantle, will work its own charms. I have great hopes of Mr Fletcher.’
‘But Mrs Bisley is promised to the captain. It would not be at all convenable for her to give him his marching orders.’
‘You are hardly in a position to discuss the conventions. Not for one moment did you spare a thought for my feelings.’
He turned round from the sink and looked at her mockingly. Emily’s eyes were round with surprise. ‘But you haven’t got any!’
‘Just because I have decided I have had a lucky escape, Miss Freemantle, I am not devoid of feelings. For example, my poor heart aches for Mrs Bisley … so vulnerable, so charming, so feminine …’
‘And so old,’ said Emily waspishly.
He looked at her with amusement and went back to washing dishes. Emily surveyed his elegant back. She had a longing to throw a plate at his head.
She continued her work in grim silence and yet felt almost sorry, although she did not know why, when the dishes and pots were all cleaned and put away.
Hannah, Mrs Bisley and Mrs Bradley were all preparing dinner. ‘Why do we not keep town hours?’ said Emily. ‘We could have a later dinner and not have to start work as soon as breakfast is over.’
‘There’s nothing else to do,’ said Hannah placidly. ‘Do you want to help here or will you do the bedchambers?’
‘I will do the bedchambers,’ said Emily.
‘I’ll be along to help you soon as I’ve finished,’ said Mrs Bradley.
Emily went upstairs. She started with the Blue Room. Hannah Pym never left anything lying around, and so all Emily had to do was empty out the washing-water, which she did by opening the window and pouring the contents out into the storm. She raked out the hearth and carried the ashes downstairs. Mr Fletcher met her and said he would take the ashes outside to supply some grit for the paths the men were digging.
She went back to the Blue Room and got the fire ready and set for lighting in the evening. Then she went to the Red Room. The bed there was made up and the fire cleaned. All she had to do was dust. Lord Harley’s clothes were hung away in the wardrobe. Two books lay beside the bed. She picked one up. It was in ancient Greek and she put it down with an exclamation of disgust. She had been hoping to find a novel she could borrow. There was a miniature beside the bed. She picked it up. The face of a very pretty woman looked out at her. ‘So that’s your opera dancer,’ she said aloud.
‘No, not my opera dancer,’ said an amused voice from the doorway. ‘My mother.’
Emily blushed, feeling like a snooping serving maid. He was leaning against the doorjamb watching her. She was conscious of his masculinity, of a sudden sharp awareness of sexual tension, of the large bed behind her, and of the dead silence created by the muffling snow outside.
‘It is fortunately very tidy in here,’ she said rather breathlessly. ‘I had better check the other rooms.’
She approached the doorway. She had to pass very close to him. Her eyes flew up to meet his, wary and cautious. He raised his hands and she shrank back.
‘Fear not, Miss Freemantle,’ he mocked. ‘My solitaire is coming undone.’ He retied the black silk ribbon that confined his thick black hair at the nape of his neck and then smiled at her.
She darted past him and went into a small narrow room next door. Captain Seaton had the luxury of sleeping alone. His room was like a pigsty – clothes thrown here and there, ash spilling out of the fire, water spilled on the floor, and the blankets half pulled off the bed.
‘Leave it,’ said Lord Harley from behind her. ‘Let the pig stew in his own muck.’
‘It must be very soul-destroying to be a chambermaid,’ said Emily.
‘I think a local girl would count herself fortunate to have a job which did not involve work in the scullery.’
‘Perhaps. It is all very lowering. You do not seem to mind.’
‘I am older than you. In my day …’ Lord Harley paused, thinking he sounded ancient. ‘In my day,’ he went on firmly, ‘we were expected to do everything a servant could do and better. That applied to the ladies as well. These days, I doubt if the new breed of married lady has ever seen the inside of her own kitchen.’
‘I have been in mine – many times,’ said Emily proudly.
‘To filch cakes from the cook? That is not the same thing. I shall help you with the remaining rooms.’
He saw the rising colour on Emily’s face and realized she did not want to be alone with him in any bedroom. The silly wench probably thinks I might rape her, he thought. ‘And while we are doing that,’ he went on, ‘you will help me write a small play for our friends.’
Diverted, Emily exclaimed, ‘A play? Why?’
‘If we all sit around at dinner and, after dinner, drinking too much, quarrels will break out. Amateur theatricals are just what we need. We need a little play, and one which involves all of us.’ He raised an eyebrow at her. ‘You, of course, Miss Freemantle, will be the heroine.’
Emily’s eyes lit up. ‘We could have a play based on the inn. I have run away with my mother, that’s Mrs Bisley, and with my old nurse, that’s Mrs Bradley, from my wicked uncle …’
‘And that is I?’
‘No, no. Captain Seaton, I think. He descends on the inn and produces a gun, and my brave swain, Jack, wrests it from his hand …’
‘And who is Jack?’
‘Oh, dear, I suppose it will have to be you, my lord, only it would be so much better if you were younger and had golden hair.’
‘Like Mr Peregrine Williams?’
‘Like …? Oh, yes, I suppose so. And the coachman can be the coachman, and the guard, the guard, and Mr Burridge and Mr Hendry can play themselves – passengers, I mean.’
‘And what of Mr Fletcher?’
Emily bit her lip. He watched her expressive face with amusement.
Then her face cleared. ‘Mr Fletcher can be the family lawyer, of course, and he … I have it! He has discovered that the wicked uncle forged Mrs Bisley’s late husband’s will and that he actually has no longer any power over her because Mrs Bisley has all the money. Mrs Bisley is so grateful that she marries the lawyer and …’
‘And Miss Emily marries her Jack?’
‘Yes, yes, but only for the purposes of the play,’ said Emily.