‘Do come in. I’ll let Mrs Canning know that you’re here,’ Cat replies gracelessly. She takes the man’s holdall from him, hangs his coat on the hall stand.
‘Thank you. You’re very kind.’ Robin Durrant is still smiling. Cat turns away from his good humour abruptly, and goes along the hall to knock on the drawing room door.
‘There’s a Mr Robin Durrant here to see you, madam. He says he is expected,’ she announces. Hester drops her pen suddenly, and looks up with a guilty blush on her cheeks. Cat wonders idly what hot gossip she was writing in the letter on the blotter.
‘Oh, gracious! Not already? I’ve not had a chance to be ready, and Albert not even back yet…’ Hester flusters.
‘Nevertheless, he is here, and waiting in the hallway,’ Cat says mildly.
‘Right, well, yes – I shall come straight away, of course,’ Hester says, but Robin Durrant appears behind Cat and clears his throat.
‘I’m so sorry – I couldn’t help but overhear – please do not disturb yourself, Mrs Canning. I am early, which is frightfully rude of me, and I shall make myself scarce until the proper time. It’s a warm day and perfect for a stroll. Please – don’t get up,’ he says cheerily. Hester gazes at him, quite at a loss, as he vanishes back into the hallway.
‘Perhaps I ought to stop him, madam?’ Cat suggests, after a pause.
‘Yes, do! Do! He must not feel he ought to leave again…’ Hester says, a little overwrought. Cat catches up with Robin by the front door.
‘Excuse me, sir, but Mrs Canning insists that you mustn’t go off again,’ she says, flatly. ‘She is quite ready to have you now.’
‘Is that so?’ Robin Durrant smiles again. His smile is ready and waiting, it seems; his face always half-primed to shape it. ‘Then stay I shall. Who could resist such an invitation?’ He gives Cat a knowing look that puts her at once on edge, and then returns to the drawing room.
‘Was that him, at the door?’ asks Mrs Bell, when Cat comes into the kitchen.
‘It was. She’ll be ringing for tea any second, once she’s gathered her wits sufficiently to remember it,’ Cat says, filling the kettle and setting it to boil.
‘What is he – young, old, rich or poor?’ the fat cook asks. From the table top, a fatty shoulder of lamb fills the room with the cloying smell of raw meat. Bluebottles circle it intently, waiting for a chance to land; but Sophie Bell is ready for them, dish towel in hand.
‘Hardly poor, and very young. About the same age as the vicar’s wife, I’d hazard.’ Cat pours herself a cup of water and drinks it in huge, messy gulps.
‘Good grief, it’s like listening to a cow at the trough,’ Mrs Bell tuts. Cat shoots her a scathing look.
‘Now you know how I feel, sitting down to dine opposite you every day,’ she mutters.
‘Any more of that lip and you’re more than welcome to eat your supper out in the yard – or not at all, is what’s more likely.’
‘Indeed,’ Cat sighs, unconcerned.
‘You should call her “the mistress” or “Mrs Canning”, not “the vicar’s wife”, so you should. Everything that comes out of your mouth sounds like disrespect towards somebody or other, and I really don’t see that you’re in any place to be giving it out,’ says Mrs Bell.
‘And why should I give respect to those that haven’t earned it?’
‘Because some people – most of the people in your life, I dare say – do deserve it, whether you think so or not. The mistress gives you a roof over your head, and a job of work to do when nobody else would give you one, not with your past…’
‘I give myself a roof over my head by working every waking minute in this house! And as for my past… the governing classes make up rules to punish others by, just to have reason to punish them and keep them down, that’s what I think. How can I not despise them when by accident of birth, by rules they have written, I am forced to answer to their every whim while they lounge about all day long, and can’t help themselves with the simplest task? And I am supposed to be grateful to them for this, when in truth they should be grateful to me! Where would she be without me? To dress her and clean her clothes and feed her and make her bed? And without you to cook the food? They need us far more than we need them. If servants weren’t all as ingrained with their rules as you, Sophie Bell, then we might forge some changes in this country.’ Cat finishes her tirade, presses her hand to her throbbing head, pours another glass of water and drinks it just as hungrily. Sophie Bell blinks like a rabbit, her jaw hanging slack and bouncing amidst her chins.
‘What on earth did they teach you up in London?’ she asks in the end, quite stunned.
‘What did they teach me?’ Cat echoes. She considers this for a moment. ‘They taught me that they will keep you down by any means, if their rules fail to curb you,’ she says, more quietly.
Sophie Bell seems to wait, almost as if she would hear more, but when Cat does not elaborate she turns back to the shoulder of lamb and flicks at the flies with her towel, wearing a troubled frown.
‘Nip out and cut us some rosemary for this lamb, Cat, there’s a good girl,’ she says, distractedly.
Hurriedly abandoning the letter to Amelia, which she has signed but not had a chance to put into its envelope, Hester smoothes the front of her dress, which is a touch creased, and pats at her hair. Without Albert to give her a lead on how she should treat this young man, and how much deference she should show, she feels quite at sea, and almost bashful about meeting him. She hears him approach and laces her hands neatly in front of her.
‘Mr Durrant, please do come in,’ she answers his polite knock. ‘I do apologise for any confusion, you were of course expected and are most welcome.’ Hester smiles as her guest enters the room.
‘Please don’t apologise. My mother would quite berate me for arriving sooner than I was supposed to, and causing a disturbance. Delighted to meet you, Mrs Canning.’ He shakes her hand warmly, pressing his thumb into her palm for just a moment. Outside the window, the gardener, Blighe, is trimming the privet hedge with shears that squeak when he opens them and squeal when he snaps them shut. This tortured sound punctuates the conversation.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr Durrant. Albert spoke so highly of your recent lecture on theosophy,’ Hester adds, hoping to have pronounced the word correctly. Robin Durrant smiles briefly in a way that makes her think she has not. She glances at him properly. He is of medium height and build, slim but quite broad at the shoulder. His hands, when they’d touched, had been every bit as soft and warm as her own. His face is heart-shaped, with marked cheekbones and gentle ridges over the brows, and there is the slight hint of a dimple in the chin. His hair is dark brown, rather long, and worn in a boyish, quite untidy style; all soft waves and stray locks. He has light brown eyes, a colour like clear toffee; and there is no trace of age upon him anywhere. Hester blinks, and realises to her dismay that she has been staring. She feels her cheeks redden slightly, and her throat is inexplicably dry.
‘In fact, my lecture was less about theosophy as a whole and more about the specific subject of nature spirits – my particular area of interest and expertise,’ Robin Durrant continues.
Hester blinks again, and for a moment can’t think what she ought to say. She is quite out of her depth. ‘Yes, of course,’ she manages at length. ‘Won’t you come and sit down? I’ll call Cat for some tea.’ She gestures to an armchair.
‘Thank you. Very kind.’ Mr Durrant smiles again, and Hester mirrors the expression. Indeed, it is hard not to smile at Robin Durrant.
‘I suppose your husband is out and about at his pastoral duties?’ Robin asks, accepting a cup of tea when Hester hands him one some minutes later.