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‘Thanks.’ She jotted down the location code on her notepad, and slit open the tape across the top of the box, as Roger left her to return to the museum front desk. It was a Wednesday – their quietest day. Term time but no school parties booked, so they weren’t expecting many visitors beyond a few pensioners who were generally more interested in the tea and cakes they served in the museum café.
Tea finished, she pulled the next box towards her and opened it up. Inside was a crumpled-up piece of fabric – dark green cotton. She held it up – it was a shirt, smelling musty and dating from the 1970s if the collar was anything to go by. The label said St Michael. Great. A Marks and Spencer original, of no value whatsoever. Why on earth was it in this box? She threw it into her box of rubbish. It was amazing how much rubbish she had come across – usually screwed-up paper and sweet wrappers chucked into the boxes of artefacts. She looked in the box again. There was a layer of yellowed newspaper, which she pulled out and inspected. The Times, from January 1972. That tied in with the date of the shirt, then. It probably indicated the last time this box had been opened. She threw that into the discard pile as well.
Finally, at the bottom of the container, was a wooden box. It measured about two feet by one, and was four or five inches deep. It appeared to be made of mahogany, and was inset with an elaborate parquetry design. This looked more promising! She slipped on a pair of thin cotton gloves and lifted it out of the cardboard box. Clearing a space, she laid it on the table, and investigated its fastening. There was a brass hook and loop clasp, but thankfully no lock. She opened it up and gasped.
‘Wow. Just, wow.’ She looked around to see if Roger was in earshot, but he’d left the back rooms. Should she call him or wait and show him when he came back? He tended to pop into the back room every hour or so to see how she was getting on. She looked back at the contents of the box. No, this was too good to wait – he needed to see this now. She left the room and went through to the front of the museum to call him.
He came trotting after her. ‘I take it that box had something better than ammonites in it, then?’
‘Oh yes. Take a look.’ She indicated the box, and he gasped too.
‘Duelling pistols. And what an elaborate pair! Take one out – you’ve got gloves on.’
She carefully extracted one from its moulded place in the box. It was a beautiful item. ‘Gorgeous! Look at that silver work, and are those rubies on the handle?’
‘It’s called the stock, not the handle,’ Roger said. ‘Yes, I’d say mahogany trimmed with silver, and set with rubies. I’ll have to have a closer look with a magnifying glass to be certain of the materials. A very fine piece.’ He looked at the case. ‘And we have the pair, plus the ramrod, and that little flask there was probably used to hold the gunpowder.’
‘Yikes, hope there’s none in it now!’ Gemma squealed in mock horror.
Roger smiled indulgently and slipped on a pair of cotton gloves. He took the little flask out of the case and opened it. ‘Empty. We’re all right. I would guess those other slots in the case would have held the shot, probably lead. And maybe a cleaning brush. But how wonderful to have the pair, in such a lovely case! I think we’ll have to get these out on display.’
‘Do you think they were ever used in a duel?’ Gemma asked. It was a sobering thought – she might be holding a gun that had killed someone.
‘Who knows? They look very decorative. They could have been commissioned and bought just for show. Duelling pistols were often owned as a kind of status symbol. It’s unusual to have jewels in the stocks like this. And see the inside of the case’s lid?’
Gemma looked. It was beautifully painted with a scene showing two eighteenth-century gentlemen engaging in a duel, standing stiffly, their pistols pointed at each other, tricorn hats and flared coats giving a hint as to the era. To one side of the picture was a spreading oak tree, and two other men stood, holding the reins of black and bay horses. It certainly looked as though the case was designed to sit open, with the interior on display. Gemma found herself hoping that the pistols had never been used in anger.
‘Well, I’ll leave you to add that to the catalogue,’ Roger said, as he stood up and pulled off his gloves. ‘Don’t put them away afterwards though – leave them on my desk. I’d like to take a closer look after we’ve closed for the day.’
‘Sure, will do.’ Gemma grinned at Roger as he left, then turned her attention back to the case. She lifted out the other pistol and the ramrod, and started making notes about the case first. As she turned it over she noticed a yellowing label stuck to the base of it. There was writing on it, in a spidery hand: Bequeathed by Mrs A. Maitland, 1923. These pistols were the ones used in the infamous shooting at Red Hill Hall.
Gemma felt a shiver run down her spine as she read the words. An ‘infamous shooting’! – but not so infamous it was still remembered in 2015. Red Hill Hall – that rang a bell. She racked her brains trying to think where else she’d heard that place name recently. And then it came to her. Her boyfriend Ben’s sister Anna was getting married soon, and the invitations had arrived in the post a couple of days ago. The wedding and reception were to be held at Red Hill Hall. It was a country house hotel about five miles out of town.
Who’d been shot, when, and why? She had an overwhelming urge to research everything she could find about the shooting. If it was described as ‘infamous’ by whoever wrote the label on the bottom of the pistol case, then it must have been covered by newspapers of the time – whenever that was. She turned to the museum’s computer, opened up a Google search page and started typing ‘shooting at Red Hill Hall’. But before she could press the Enter key Roger came back.
‘Gemma, could you take over at the front desk, please? The café’s short of milk and I told Jean I’d pop up to the Co-op to get some. Won’t be long.’
‘Sure. Coming.’ She shut the laptop’s lid and left the back room, locking the door behind her so that no visitors would be tempted to wander in. The research would have to wait until later.
As it turned out, she did not get a chance to return to the back office that day. A coach party arrived and she was kept busy at the desk and in the small souvenir shop until closing time. All afternoon thoughts of the pistols ran through her head. Had someone been killed in this shooting? She supposed so – otherwise why would it have been described as infamous?
‘Roger, have you seen what’s on the underside of the pistols’ case?’ she asked, as they tidied the little museum shop after closing time.
He hadn’t, so she told him. His eyes lit up. ‘Well, I haven’t heard of this shooting but it certainly sounds like something worth investigating. Feel free to do it here; perhaps start searching online tomorrow?’
‘I was hoping you’d say that,’ she said, grinning at him. Something to look forward to at work tomorrow – infinitely better than measuring and describing endless ammonites for the catalogue!
‘You look lovely tonight,’ said Ben, kissing her as he stood to greet her in the Men At Arms pub, just a little way up the high street from the museum. It was her favourite pub – dark and cosy, old and full of character. ‘We’ve bought a bottle of Sauvignon. Nat chose it. Hope that’s all right for you?’
‘Fine, thanks. Hi, Nat,’ said Gemma. Actually she was more in the mood for a pint of bitter but as Natalie had got there first it seemed reasonable for her to choose the wine. Ben was so easy-going he’d drink anything. They were sitting at a table in a snug, its walls covered with dark wood panelling and hung with prints of Victorian country houses. She pulled an upholstered stool from under the table and sat down.
‘Cheers, then,’ said Nat, pouring her a glass and handing it over.
‘Cheers!’ Gemma clinked her glass against the other two and sighed happily. It was one of her favourite times of the week – being out for the night with her boyfriend and her best mate, the two people she loved best in the world. The three of them were inseparable, and had been ever since she and Ben had got together. Actually, she and Nat had been practically joined at the hip since school days.
‘Gemma, did you get Anna and Jake’s wedding invitation?’ Ben asked her.
‘I did. Can’t wait! It’s not till June though, is it?’
‘Nineteenth. I got one too. We’ll have to go shopping for new frocks,’ Nat said, with a wink at Gemma. ‘You’ll need something really smart. You can’t wear your usual tatty jeans and a fleece to a wedding, you know.’
‘Cheeky! Of course I’ll get something nice.’ Gemma gave Nat a playful punch on the arm. Anna, she hoped, would one day be her sister-in-law, if only Ben would get around to popping the question. And if he didn’t, well, next year was a leap year, so she’d do it herself. They’d been together seven years. It was time to make an honest man of him.
She suddenly remembered the wedding venue. ‘Hey, Ben, have you ever been to Red Hill Hall?’
‘Where?’ He looked blank.
‘Where Anna’s getting married, you dolt.’
He looked sheepish. ‘Oh yes, of course. No, never been there. Have you, Nat?’
‘No. It’s only just reopened under new management, hasn’t it? I think it was closed for years before then. I had a look at the website. Looks like a gorgeous setting for a wedding – all sweeping staircases and high-ceilinged ballrooms.’ Nat winked at Ben. ‘We’ll have fun there, won’t we – playing at lord and lady of the manor. Gemma, you could be my paid companion.’
‘Aw, why can’t I be the lady and you the companion?’ Gemma pouted.
Nat laughed. ‘You’ll need a very expensive dress if you want to upstage me, my dear. I intend buying something really fabulous. I’ll look amazing. Amazing, darling!’ She fluttered her eyelashes at Ben, who grinned and blew her a kiss, but caught hold of Gemma’s hand under the table and gave it a squeeze.
Gemma smiled. Nat liked to play the prima donna and Ben would play along. It was part of their group dynamics. She had no doubt that Nat would look fantastic, and no doubt better than she would herself. Nat was a beautician, currently working at a salon at the far end of town. She’d had many jobs over the years, never staying at any of them for very long. She’d only started at the salon a few weeks ago. Gemma hoped she would stick at it a bit longer than she had at the others. Poor Nat. She’d always struggled finding a job she liked. Before Gemma started working at the museum the two of them had often gone out drinking together to drown their sorrows about their rubbish, dead-end jobs. There was no better person than Nat when you needed a sympathetic ear. She always understood better than anyone else, because she’d been through it all herself.
‘Anyway, the hall sounds lovely,’ Gemma said. ‘I’ll definitely take a look at their website. I came across something at the museum today, relating to Red Hill Hall. Bit of a coincidence, having had the wedding invitation this week as well.’
Ben looked at her with interest. ‘What did you find?’
‘More fossils?’ Nat rolled her eyes.
‘Guns. Well, duelling pistols. Apparently they were used in a shooting at the hall.’ Gemma picked up the half-empty bottle and topped up everyone’s glasses.
‘Oh my God. Don’t tell Anna that – she’d have a fit if she thought someone had been murdered at her wedding venue.’ Ben took a sip of his wine.
‘Duelling pistols? So was there, like, a duel there? Does a duel count as murder?’ Nat looked as though she wanted all the juicy details.
‘Well I don’t know yet, whether it was a duel or even if anyone died. I came across the pistols – very ornate ones – in their case, and there was a note saying something about an infamous shooting. Tomorrow’s job is to research it and try to find out what happened.’
‘Wow. Your job is so much more interesting than mine. Most excitement I get is to work out lifeguard rotas and arrange five-a-side tournaments for school kids.’ Ben’s job was manager of a sports centre. He shook his head and laughed.
‘I don’t know. I’d rather do what you do than faff around with dusty relics all day like Gemma does.’ Nat flashed him a look. ‘I reckon my new job’s the best one though. All day playing with make-up and doing people’s nails – like being a little kid at your mum’s make-up drawer. I love it. Well, I would love it, if only Bitchface Boss wasn’t always on my case.’
Gemma smiled but didn’t say anything. How she and Nat were such close friends was a mystery. If she was honest, they didn’t really have a lot in common, other than their shared memories of course. Nat liked gossip mags, reality shows and loud, modern nightclubs. Gemma preferred historical novels, costume dramas and quiet, ancient pubs. And she’d been with Ben for seven years whereas Nat’d had a string of boyfriends, none of them lasting more than a month or two. Still, ever since starting secondary school at the age of eleven they’d been best friends. They’d been put next to each other in maths class, and Gemma had whispered the answer to a question when the teacher put Nat on the spot. In return Nat had picked Gemma first for a netball team, and the two had become inseparable. Over the years they’d each spent time doing what the other one liked, and somehow their friendship had worked and indeed, had deepened. She would do anything for Nat, and knew Nat would do anything for her as well. Opposites attract – that was as true for friendships as it was for romance – and she and Nat were a great example of that rule.
‘Hey, I know!’ Nat turned to Gemma, her eyes shining. Gemma knew that look. It meant Nat had hatched a plan, and it was probably something Gemma wouldn’t feel completely comfortable with. ‘Why don’t I do your hair and make-up for Anna’s wedding? As the girlfriend of the bride’s brother you’re quite an important guest, you know. You’ll have to look stunning, but not so stunning you upstage the bride of course. I could put your hair up, in some sophisticated up-do, and shape your cheekbones, even out your skin tone, accentuate your eyes. Oh there’s so much I could do to improve your looks, Gemma! Do say yes!’
Gemma squirmed. Nat knew how she felt about too much make-up. She was happy wearing her usual subtle bit of mascara and lip gloss but anything else made her feel deeply uncomfortable. As well as making her skin feel itchy. She remembered how they’d experimented with make-up in their early teens, including going through a short-lived Goth phase of deep purple lipstick and heavy black eyeliner. Perhaps that was what had put her off make-up. ‘Well, maybe my hair, but I’m not sure I’d want it up…’
‘I love your hair left loose and long.’ Ben kissed the side of her head and she smiled at him gratefully.
‘Oh, well, if you don’t want me to, I won’t bother. Your loss.’ Nat drained her glass and smiled at Gemma. ‘More wine? It’s your round.’
Chapter 2 (#ulink_e18cf3d8-7df2-541a-86f1-d6ae21fc1dfe)
May 1830
Rebecca couldn’t remember a time when Sarah hadn’t been there. All her life, all ten years of it so far, Sarah had been at her side, her best friend, her confidante, her playmate and her partner in crime. Today was no exception.
‘Look at the sun shining!’ Sarah said after breakfast, when the two girls were supposed to be going upstairs to the schoolroom for their daily lessons with the governess, Miss Albarn. ‘It’d be wrong not to go out and enjoy it. Who cares about French, drawing and grammar? Rebecca, we must go outside and have a run around the gardens. Come on!’ She caught hold of Rebecca’s arm and tugged.
‘But Miss Albarn will be waiting for us. We can’t, Sarah!’ Rebecca was halfway up the stairs, and almost overbalanced as she tried to pull her arm free from Sarah’s grip.
‘Miss Albarn can wait. It’s the first sunny day for months and there’s a blackbird’s nest I want to show you. Come on!’
As usual, Sarah won the battle and Rebecca followed her outside, through the kitchen garden and into the park beyond. In a hedgerow that marked the perimeter of Rebecca’s father’s estate, there was indeed a blackbird’s nest. The tiny, naked baby birds cheeped loudly, their beaks open wide in expectation of food.
‘What do they eat?’ Rebecca asked. Sarah was almost a year older than her, and as far as Rebecca was concerned, she was the font of all knowledge. Miss Albarn was all very well for piano and drawing lessons, but if you wanted to know something about the real world, Sarah was the person to ask.
‘Beetles,’ Sarah said, with conviction. ‘If we found some, we could drop them in their mouths.’
‘Where would we find beetles?’
‘There are woodlice in the stables. Those will do.’
Rebecca stared at her friend. ‘How can we carry woodlice all the way back here? In our hands? Ugh!’
‘We can take the birds there.’ Sarah reached into the hedge and grasped the nest with both hands. As she pulled it free it fell apart, and the baby birds tumbled into the depths of the hedge.
Rebecca felt a pang of sorrow for the tiny, helpless creatures. ‘You’ve broken their home. What will their parents think when they come back?’
‘Serve them right for leaving their babies alone. Pah! They’ve fallen right down now. I can’t reach them.’ Sarah flung the remains of the nest on the ground and started running off across the park. ‘Come on. Let’s find something else to do. Race you to the climbing tree!’
Rebecca peered into the hedge and whispered an apology to the little birds, then gathered up her skirts and began running after Sarah. They weren’t allowed to climb the climbing tree – ever since Sarah had fallen and had only been saved from broken bones by her skirts catching in the lower branches and tearing. Sarah’s mother, the housekeeper at Red Hill Hall, had been furious. Rebecca had stood with her head bowed while Mrs Cooper shouted at Sarah. Mrs Cooper had been cross with her too – Rebecca could tell, but she’d not dared to shout at the daughter of her employer. There were some advantages to being the child of the master of Red Hill Hall, Rebecca had learned. Sarah, as the daughter of the housekeeper, had some perks – she shared a governess with Rebecca and had the run of the house and garden – but she was never allowed to forget that she was of a lower class.
Sarah was already at the climbing tree. It was a large overgrown flowering cherry in full bloom. Sarah jumped up to catch hold of one of the lower branches and hung off it, shaking blossom confetti all over both of them. Rebecca laughed and spun around, her arms outstretched and her face tilted upwards. ‘It’s raining petals!’ She grabbed a whole blossom that had been shaken loose and tucked it in her hair. ‘I’m Titania, Queen of the Fairies!’
‘You are no such thing, Miss Rebecca. You are a naughty girl who has skipped her lessons for the morning. As are you, Miss Sarah. Now brush yourselves off, and come indoors, the both of you. I shall have to mention this to Mr Winton.’
Rebecca looked at Miss Albarn in alarm. They’d been having so much fun. Why did the governess have to come and spoil it all? She pouted, and began brushing the petals from her clothes.
Sarah let go of the branch and landed with a thump on the lawn. ‘Sorry, Miss Albarn. We were on our way but Rebecca wanted to come and play in the tree as it is so beautiful when it is in full bloom. I wondered if perhaps we could make some watercolour sketches of it this afternoon? That’s if you haven’t already planned a lesson, of course.’ She dropped a pretty curtsey, eliciting a smile from the governess.
Rebecca watched in dismay. It wasn’t the first time she’d gone along with something Sarah had suggested, and ended up in trouble for it. And why had Sarah said it was her idea to play in the tree? It wasn’t fair. But she knew that if Sarah shouldered the blame, she’d be punished. She’d probably be made to stand in the corner of the schoolroom all day, or perhaps miss her supper. Whereas apart from the few stern words Miss Albarn had already voiced, Rebecca would receive no further admonishment. Another advantage of being the daughter of the master. Still, it hurt to always be the one to take the blame. Miss Albarn must think she was such a bad girl. And she wasn’t sure how much of it went back to her father and mother.
‘We might come and sketch the tree, Miss Sarah. Or we might not. For now, we are going inside to read some poetry. With your poor mother taken so poorly, one would have thought the two of you would have more decorum than to be running around the park.’
‘Miss Albarn, whose mother is poorly?’ asked Rebecca. Oh please don’t let it be hers, she thought, though the idea of Mrs Cooper being sick was not a good one either. Sometimes Mrs Cooper felt more like a mother to her than her own mother, who was often too busy to take much notice of her.
‘Sarah’s. Poor Mrs Cooper. It’s come on so suddenly, this time.’ Miss Albarn dabbed at her eye with a handkerchief.
‘Is it Mama’s chest again?’ Sarah asked.
‘Yes, the poor dear. She can barely catch her breath. Mr Winton has sent for the doctor. She’ll be all right I’m sure, but in the meantime, we must not let her ailment distract us from our lessons. How am I going to make young ladies of you both if you insist on missing lessons and running off around the park like wild village children? Now come along, quickly.’ Miss Albarn tucked her handkerchief up her sleeve and marched across the lawn towards the house, the hem of her grey gown dragging cherry blossom in her wake.
For the next week the girls were not allowed to leave the house. Mrs Cooper was seriously unwell and it seemed the entire focus of the household was on caring for her. The butler, Spencer, had to take over many of Mrs Cooper’s responsibilities, delegating as much as he could to the cook and upper housemaids. Dr Millbank was an almost constant presence in the house, and two nurses had been employed to tend to Mrs Cooper day and night. Sarah was allowed to visit her mother once a day, for a few minutes only, for fear of tiring her too much. On these occasions Rebecca lurked in the doorway of the sickroom and watched with tears in her eyes as Sarah sat at her mother’s side, clutching her hand and imploring her not to die, while the nurse hushed her and dabbed at Mrs Cooper’s forehead with a cool, damp cloth. Rebecca couldn’t help but imagine how awful it would be if it was her own mother lying sick and fading.
Rebecca’s own parents walked about the house with grim expressions. Her father was a frequent visitor to the sickroom and had insisted that no expense be spared if it would help Mrs Cooper recover.
On the tenth day of Mrs Cooper’s illness, the girls were in the schoolroom with Miss Albarn, trying but failing to concentrate on French verbs, when a housemaid tapped at the door.
‘Excuse me, Miss Albarn, but the doctor said I should fetch Miss Sarah to see her mother right away.’ Her face looked drawn, and Sarah immediately leapt to her feet, her hand clasped to her mouth.
Miss Albarn scowled. ‘This is most irregular. Sarah usually visits her mother after tea. Why must she go now in the middle of our lessons?’
‘Excuse me, miss, but I don’t know. All I know is Mr Winton agreed and said Sarah must indeed come at once.’ The maid gave a small curtsey and held the door open. Sarah rushed through, followed by the housemaid. Rebecca hesitated for a moment then made up her mind. It was more important to be with her friend right now, than learning about the past perfect tense. She glanced at Miss Albarn, shrugged an apology and ran off, ignoring the governess’s protests.
Mrs Cooper had been put in one of the main bedrooms on the first floor. It was easier, Mr Winton had said, to nurse her there than in her usual apartment in the servants’ wing, where Sarah also slept. Rebecca ran down to the first floor and along the corridor to the sickroom. There was a crowd of people in the room and in the corridor, all speaking in hushed tones, their faces worn and worried. All the upper servants were there, and Spencer, his eyes sad and tired, was trying to keep them calm. Rebecca pushed through them to the door, but was held back by the butler.
‘Miss Rebecca, I’m afraid I don’t think it is wise for you to go in,’ he said, gently. Rebecca liked Spencer. He was a kind and capable man, who had helped defeat Napoleon at the Battle of Waterloo, fighting alongside her father. He’d been the Wintons’ butler ever since he’d retired from the army. He and Mrs Cooper had managed the house for as long as she could remember. There was a time when she’d thought they were married to each other, until Sarah laughed at her and told her they were not.
She pulled away from him. ‘But Sarah’s my friend – she’s like my sister. She’ll need me if something awful happens.’
‘She will indeed, and you are a kind lass for recognising that. But right now her poor mother, poor dear Isobel, is in her final moments, and Sarah needs to say a quiet goodbye. You may watch from the doorway but I cannot allow you to enter the room.’ Spencer led her through to the door of the room, which stood ajar, but he kept a hold of her shoulder.
Inside the darkened room, Rebecca could just make out Mrs Cooper’s form under mounds of bedclothes. At her head stood one of the nurses, who was constantly dabbing at her brow with a cloth. Dr Millbank and Rebecca’s father stood at the foot of the bed in silence, their hands clasped behind their backs. But it was Sarah who drew Rebecca’s eye. She had climbed onto the bed beside her mother, and had tucked her head onto her mother’s shoulder, draping her arm across her chest. She was whispering something in her mother’s ear, but Rebecca could not hear what she said. As she watched, Mrs Cooper weakly raised a hand and laid it on her daughter’s face. Sarah turned her head to kiss her mother’s palm, and Rebecca could just see the glint of tears running down her face.
The room was silent, apart from the harsh but feeble sound of Mrs Cooper’s breathing. Rebecca could not take her eyes off her friend. How she longed to go over and place a comforting hand on Sarah’s shoulder. If only there was something she could do, or something she could say. It was too awful to have to watch your own mother die. But Spencer still had hold of her although she could feel his hand shaking, and with her father in the room she dared not disobey. She could only stand and watch.
How long she and everyone else stood there she could not say, but she gradually became aware that the harsh breathing was growing ever quieter. Mrs Cooper’s hand slipped off Sarah’s face. Sarah gave a little cry and clasped her mother’s hand. The doctor took a step forward and placed his fingers on the housekeeper’s other wrist. He stood for a moment, then shook his head sadly. Sarah seemed not to have noticed his approach for she did not move at all. Spencer, still holding Rebecca’s shoulder, gave a stifled sob, and she looked at him in surprise. The butler was usually so calm. It was odd for him to show any emotion.
She watched as her father approached the bed. He put his hand on Sarah’s shoulder. ‘Come, child. Leave her. There is nothing more you can do. Let her rest in peace now.’
‘Nooooo!’ Sarah wailed as she realised what he meant. ‘No! It cannot be! Mama!’ She threw herself across her mother’s body and curled into a ball, as though she was a small child being cradled on its mother’s lap. Rebecca’s heart broke for her friend. She could not imagine being left motherless. And Sarah did not have a father – at least not one anyone knew about. Her mother had always said that Sarah’s father had ‘gone away’. Sarah was now an orphan.
‘Come, child,’ said Mr Winton, again. ‘It’s time to leave.’ He looked over to the doorway and beckoned to Spencer, who let go of Rebecca and went in. Spencer bent over and scooped Sarah into his arms, and carried her out of the room. Sarah was clinging to him tightly.
She tried to go after him but her father pulled her back. ‘Spencer will look after her. He will send for you when the time is right for you to see her. Go and find your mother now, and tell her Mrs Cooper has passed away. I shall be downstairs shortly.’
Rebecca glanced inside the sickroom once more, and saw the doctor raising a bed sheet up over Mrs Cooper’s face. Mr Winton gently pulled the door closed, then spoke to the gathered servants. ‘It is over. Return to your duties, everyone.’
The servants began to disperse, many of them wiping their eyes. Mrs Cooper had been a popular member of staff, firm but fair. Rebecca set off to the morning room in search of her mother. She wondered whether her parents would employ a new housekeeper. She supposed they would have to, but she couldn’t imagine anyone else running the household. And what would become of Sarah?
Mrs Winton was in the morning room, sitting by the window on a green silk chaise longue, with a piece of embroidery in her hands. She listened quietly as Rebecca told her what had happened, then she carefully put away her stitching before pulling Rebecca to her in a brief embrace.
