“I do apologise m’am. There is an emergency on and we neglected to hear your bell. May I ask from which room your ladyship rang?”
“Yes—that room over there.” She gestured with a wide sweep of her hand in no particular direction, lost her balance, and sat down with a bump. She was up again before any of them could come to her assistance, and pretending that nothing had happened.
“I need refreshment. All the bottles in my room are empty. Do you understand? Empty. What sort of a House is this that allows its guests to die of thirst? Now, I know what I want. Brandy. I’ve had a shock. Ringing that bell has hurt my wrist. I need a brandy to recover. Fetch me a brandy.”
“Ma’m—”
“I am Lady Penelope Smith—a widow.” She stifled a sob. “My husband—Lord Penelope Smith. No—Algernon Smith, such a good man. He’s dead you know. I wanted for nothing. I had it all, wealth, happiness, friends, dogs—all sorts of dogs—I don’t know what they were—they had names too—like ‘thingy’ something—where are they now? Where are my dogs? I want my dogs.”
“Ma’m—”
She wiped away imaginary tears with the back of her hand and smeared her make-up. “Do you know what the most important thing in the world is? Do you? Do you know? I’ll tell you—puddles.”
“Ma’m?”
“Cuddles. That’s what makes the world lovely. Abercrombie and I always had them. He liked them too—oh,” she sobbed. “I miss him so much.” Then she dabbed her eyes with her lace cuff, squinted, and asked; “Do you like them?”
“Ma’m?”
“To be held in the arms of the one you love; to feel their warmth and strength all around you. It makes everything so much better. I’m feeling a little bit sad now.” She held out her arms. “Give me a cuddle.”
The young man stepped back. “Your Ladyship, I apologise for not hearing your bell, but the Master is expecting us. The Blue Room on the next floor has a well-stocked drinks cabinet. May I suggest that you make your way there?”
Isobel wailed; “Don’t leave me. I don’t know where to go. I need a drink.”
The man looked flustered. “Ma’m—George here will show you the way.” He pulled the reluctant George forward. “George will look after you m’am. Excuse us.” He ran past her, and took the stairs two at a time, followed by the other servant.
Isobel stared into the middle distance and muttered; “I want a cuddle. Penny wants a cuddle. Cuddle for Penny.”
“Let me show you the way.” George stepped aside to allow her past.
She looked him up and down, as if her were something the cat had brought in. “I know perfectly well what I am doing and where I am going. Do I know you? Are you related to the Barringtons? Such nice people. I had a vacation with them you know. We went everywhere—can’t remember where exactly. I seem to have lost them. Have you seen the Barringtons?”
“Please follow me your ladyship.”
George descended the stairs, and a moment later she followed, first correcting her balance, and then lurching dangerously down the steps like an old drunk. She wheezed and grunted as she tried to keep up.
George opened the door to the Blue Room and ducked inside. No doubt to check the drinks cabinet, thought Isobel, and she took advantage of his sudden disappearance, picked up her skirts, and ran. A Japanese screen stood proud of the wall a little way down the corridor. She squeezed behind it, almost tripping over the brass coal scuttles stored there for lighting fires in the upstairs rooms.
She peeped through the narrow gap between the hinges. George reappeared. He glanced up and down the corridor. He went back into The Blue Room and came out again. He scratched his head. He muttered what might have been an obscenity, and then he dived for the stairs and disappeared.
Isobel waited; she listened to the silence; strange, considering all the commotion. She emerged from behind the screen and tip-toed back to the Grand Staircase. She hurried down the next flight of steps, and came to a short landing lined with recessed sash windows framed with red velvet curtains.
She darted from one recess to the next. Voices echoed below. She reached the last recess and flattened herself against the wall, then peered ever so slowly round the edge of the red curtain.
She was right beside the final flight of stairs that led down to the Main Hall.
Parklands front doors stood wide open, and the Hall’s black and white marble floor gleamed in the sunlight. Two doormen, wearing overcoats, stood on duty as staff hurried through. Had William sealed off all the doors in the House except these to prevent her escape?
She eased herself behind the curtain and glanced out of the window. The drop to the Terrace was too high. Another disguise was needed.
On display at the top of the stairs stood a suit of medieval armour; propped against the wall beside the curtain leant a wooden jousting lance. She released the tie holding the curtain, and guided it in front of the window, taking care not to make any sudden movements.
She unclipped the clasp that secured the sash window, then took hold of the bottom half and pushed it up with the speed of a tortoise walking on a cold day. Each time it squeaked, she stopped. Her shoulders ached with tension, but at last the window was open. She checked that no one was on the Terrace, then pulled off her wig and glasses, and dropped them out of the window.
She knelt behind the curtain and pushed aside the heavy folds to reach the lance. Her fingers curled around its ancient wood, and she dragged the handle across the carpeted floor towards her. The lance’s heavy unwieldy weight made it difficult to move, and its metal tip scraped against the wall. It needed all her strength to drag it behind the curtain.
She increased the angle of its tilt until the tip stuck out across the landing.
Braced against the wall, she took a deep breath, aimed the lance’s point at the armour, and pushed.
The armour rocked forwards, remained motionless, and then tipped. It crashed down the marble stairs in a cacophony of ringing metal. She dropped the lance and flattened herself against the wall.
The clash and clang of bouncing metal died away. There was a moment of complete silence. Her heart thumped in her ears. Then the shouting started and footsteps raced up the stairs.
One of the doormen appeared, breathing hard. He went straight to the open window.
“There’s somebody on the Terrace,” he called. “Get out there. I’ll watch from here.”
Isobel draped the curtain around herself and the doorman, grabbed the window, and pulled it down hard, hitting the doorman on the head. He grunted and collapsed. She pulled him back over the sill, and he tumbled to the floor.
Thank goodness only one of them had come to investigate. She unbuttoned his overcoat and pulled off his boots. The she twisted and squirmed and wriggled her way out of the purple gown. She was hot and flustered by the time she managed to rid herself of it, and she cursed the wasted minutes it took to remove.
She scrubbed off the remains of her cosmetics with the outer skirt.
The overcoat was at least two sizes too large, but it was her only hope of disguise. The doorman’s short brown hair was not unlike her own, she reasoned, though her cut was less severe. She kicked off the tartan slippers and pulled on the boots. They were warm, and her feet slipped around inside. Something in the overcoat’s pocket bumped against her thigh. She pulled out a leather scabbard that protected the blade of a short dagger. Lucky, a dagger might be handy.
She glanced out of the window. Household staff criss-crossed the Terrace in total confusion and shouted contradictory orders. She hummed a low note to find a deeper pitch to her voice. Then she thrust her head out and shouted; “Towards the orchard. She’s been spotted in the orchard.” The orchards grew on the other side of the House, far away from the doors. The confused staff sprinted away on her instruction.