The Unseen(59)

She teaches the girls cookery and needlework, flower pressing, composition, deportment and grammar. Whatever she can think of that might benefit them, she tries to fit in some tuition upon it. And even though most of them are poor, and will end up married young and mothers themselves, ruining their bodies in the fields or going into service at one of the big estates nearby, Hester still likes to think that knowing a poem is never a wasted thing, and can bring comfort to the roughest of souls. She normally comes away from the lessons with a renewed energy for life, her mood elevated and spirits high. But not this time. Some vague sense of worry dogs her steps, as though she has mislaid something important. Her mind replays the recent weeks, retracing its steps, trying without success to find where exactly this crucial thing has been lost.

An unusual noise makes Hester look up, and she realises that Sophie Bell, standing over Cat at the wash tub, is laughing. Hester pauses, and realises that this is the first time she has ever heard her housekeeper laugh out loud. She smiles a little as she approaches the pair of them, but when they see her, the laughter stops abruptly. Cat continues to scrub and Sophie Bell looks away in such a guilty manner that Hester is left with the distinct impression that she has been the butt of the joke. To her dismay, unexpected tears fill her eyes, and she blinks hurriedly, smiling to conceal them.

‘Good morning, ladies. I trust you’re both well?’ she says. Both Cat and Mrs Bell nod and murmur their assent. ‘I called in on Mrs Trigg on my way back from school, Mrs Bell. She asked after you.’

‘Oh, well. And how is she? Any better?’ Sophie asks.

‘Not a great deal, I fear. She’s still keeping to her bed. I know she would dearly love to have more visitors,’ Hester says.

Mrs Bell nods sharply, her chins rippling. ‘I’ll make sure I drop by to see her soon, madam,’ she says. Hester glances down at the wash tub and sees the stains Cat is working on, the soap suds drying into a scummy ring around her elbows. Perhaps this is why they’d been laughing at her? Again, Hester feels her eyes stinging, and she looks away, ready to walk past them towards the front of the house.

Just then, there’s a crash from inside the house; scraping sounds and a loud thump. All three women look quickly at one another. Hester edges past Sophie Bell, who needs more time to turn, and is the first one through the back door. Leading off the corridor, before it opens into the kitchen, is the door to the cold store. This is a small room built with three outside walls. It is dug a little deeper into the ground, with three steps leading down into it, and is stone floored, with shelves of solid slate slab that stay cooler for longer, even in hot weather. The only light comes from a tiny window, not six inches square, set high in the far wall opposite the door. There is no glass in the window, just wire mesh to keep out insects and vermin. It has the feel of a compact cave, which is the aim of its design. All meats and cheese, milk, cream and fruit – anything that will spoil in a warm room – finds a longer life on the cool slate shelves, or hanging from savage-looking hooks in the ceiling. Robin Durrant is leaning against the wall outside the cold store as Hester hurries towards it.

The source of the crash is immediately apparent. Smashed shards of a china basin sit in a puddle of white mess on the floor of the corridor.

‘What has happened? That was the batter for the sausage puddings!’ exclaims Mrs Bell, who has waddled along behind her mistress. Hester glances at Robin Durrant, who looks serious for once, and then into the little room, where Albert is filling his arms with foodstuffs.

‘Albert? What on earth is going on?’ she asks him.

‘All of this stuff must be cleared out, Hetty. Robin has need of this room,’ Albert says, quite cheerfully.

‘But … this is the cold store, Mr Durrant. What possible use could it be to you?’ Hester asks.

‘Very considerable use, my dear Mrs Canning. I have decided to develop my own photographs, you see. My equipment was delivered to me this morning … The local laboratories have insufficient skill for work of such a precise nature as I am undertaking; and anyway they take far too long to return my prints to me,’ Robin says. He stands up from the wall and links his hands behind his back, making no move to assist Albert in his labours. ‘I do apologise about the batter, Mrs Bell.’ The theosophist smiles at the simmering housekeeper.

‘But … I don’t understand,’ Hester says. ‘This is where we keep fresh food cold … what has it to do with your photographs?’ she asks.

‘Excuse me, dear,’ Albert says, squeezing past them and towards the kitchen with arms laden with bacon and cheese.