The Silent Orphan Page 6

  Martha swiped angrily at a stray tear as it slid down her cheek. “I thought we were in this together,” she said angrily.

  Gid reached for her arm, but she yanked away.

  “Don’t touch me.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said again. “But I have to take this opportunity. No matter what you and I do, the twins are going to run this business into the ground soon. And then where will I be? I need the work. The security. Or I’ll be out on the streets. Or back in the workhouse.”

  “Don’t pretend this is about security,” Martha said bitterly. “I know you’re only going because of her.” She spat the word out as though it were poison. “She’s going to play you like a fool, Gid. You know that, don’t you?”

  He tightened his jaw, “That’s not true.”

  Martha snorted, “I know how you feel about her. But you’re the help. What do you think is going to happen? She’s going to let you sweep her off her feet? Do you truly imagine she’ll lower herself to being with a man like you?”

  Gid felt his cheeks grow hot with anger. “You don’t know anything about me and Miss Gresham,” he hissed.

  Martha laughed coldly, “You and Miss Gresham? There is no you and Miss Gresham, Gid. You’re nothing to her. You never will be. Why can’t you see that?”

  Gid shook his head. Martha was wrong.

  “I thought you an intelligent man,” she said. “Clearly I was mistaken.”

  Feeling a sudden swell of anger, Gid tried to march past her. She grabbed his arm, digging her fingers into his flesh.

  “Please,” she said, unable to stop the tremor in his voice. “Stay. I need you, Gid. I can’t do this on my own.”

  She looked into his eyes, and for a second Gid saw behind her steely façade to the determined and desperate young woman who lay beneath.

  He swallowed heavily. For a moment, he hesitated. He knew he owed it to Martha to stay. Over the past seven years, she had always looked out for him, always stood up for him. Had seen him fed and clothed when no one else had bothered. She had spent countless nights hunched over a lantern, walking him patiently through his arithmetic. He cared deeply for her.

  But Martha Flatley was not Abigail. She did not make his heart flutter and his skin grow hot. She did not work her way into his dreams each night. The greatest of opportunities was standing before him and there was no way he was going to let it slip through his fingers.

  Besides, he told himself, to ease the gnawing of his conscience, the deal had been done. Abigail had already paid the twins for his services. “No,” he told Martha, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. I can’t stay. I’ve made up my mind.”

  * * *

  Gid tried to push his conversation with Martha from his mind as he made his way to Haverstock House. His thoughts were knocking together. He had not wanted to leave on such bitter terms with Martha. He made a silent wish that she might find herself a better life. Might find herself someone who felt for her the way he felt about Abigail. He wished she might have more than a life of mopping up her brothers’ messes and trying to save their flailing business.

  He pushed Martha from his mind. He had the opportunity of his dreams. And he was certainly not going to let Martha Flatley and her twisted jealousy destroy it.

  Clutching his pack, he knocked on the door of Haverstock House. His heart began to race again, all thoughts of the Flatleys and their funeral parlour evaporating.

  Abigail’s butler, Groves, answered the door. The man was old and hunched, but his eyes were sharp and intelligent. He was dressed entirely in grey. He reminded Gid of a storm cloud.

  “This way, Mr Cobbler,” he said brusquely.

  Gid followed him up the large staircase that rose up from the entrance hall. They walked down a long corridor, lined with closed doors. Gid found himself wondering if Abigail Gresham was behind one of them. Groves led him up another smaller staircase and pushed on the hatch at the top.

  “Your room,” he said shortly. “Supper will be served in the downstairs kitchen at eight. Do not be late.”

  Gid gave a nod of thanks and climbed up to the attic.

  The room was small, lit only by a narrow window sliced into the roof. In the late afternoon, the light was grey and pale.

  Gid set his bag on the bed. What a luxury. An actual bed all his own. Seven years in the Flatleys’ hay loft and two years in the workhouse. He had not had a bed all to himself since his parents were alive. Beside the bed was a small side table with a drawer beneath it. He took his notebook from his pocket and slipped it into the drawer, along with his old woollen cap.

  The bed creaked as he sat on it. He felt a restlessness beneath his skin. Haverstock House was his home now and he felt a desperate need to explore it. A desperate need, he accepted, more than partially driven by his need to learn which part of the house Abigail Gresham inhabited.

  He stood and made his way back down the steep staircase that led up to the attic. His was the only room up here, he noticed. He guessed the rest of the servants slept downstairs. He wove his way back through the winding passages, past the row of closed doors. Down the winding staircase he went until he was back in the glittering entrance hall.

  Slowly, he made his way through the first storey, peeking into a parlour with deep red curtains and a dining room occupied almost entirely by an enormous oak table. A smoking room sat in one corner of the house, still thick with the smell of old tobacco. Gid thought of Abigail’s uncle, the enormous man he had dressed for burial some years ago. Had the smoking room belonged to him? For a moment, he could picture the man reclined in the armchair, bringing a pipe to his lips.

  He had prepared more than one of Haverstock House’s residents for their grave, Gid realised, the thought making him shudder a little. Abigail’s mother, with her skeletal body and sickly skin, the aunt with bags beneath her eyes. He had cleaned them, dressed them. And for a moment, he pictured them walking these halls, footsteps clicking on the polished floorboards.

  He shuddered, the thought bringing a sudden chill. He pushed it away and returned to his exploration of the mansion. Haverstock House belonged to Abigail now. The rest of her family were dead and gone.

  * * *

  At eight o’clock Gid made his way to the downstairs kitchen to eat supper with the rest of the staff. Groves sat opposite him, while three young kitchen workers and Abigail’s lady’s maid filled the rest of the seats.

  Gid greeted each of them politely and began to eat the meaty stew the cook had set in front of him.

  What a strange thing it was to be eating at a table. In the past seven years, he had taken almost all of his meals in the hay loft. Yes, he thought, he had certainly made the right decision by escaping the Flatleys.

  Soon, the housemaids began to chatter amongst themselves. Gid found himself thinking of Abigail. Where was she, he wondered? Did she take her supper alone? Or did she have callers? What was she doing right now?

  The back of his neck prickled.

  After supper, he made his way up to his attic room. His legs were weary, but he felt wide awake. There was something energizing about being in this place, so close to her. For years, Gid had fallen asleep dreaming of Abigail Gresham. And now he was to sleep in the very same house as her.

  He climbed into bed, jittery at the thought.

  Stared into the darkness until the first hint of dawn.

  Chapter 12

  Gid’s workday began early. At six, he was waiting in the entrance hall for Groves as instructed, his eyes heavy with sleeplessness. The light in the foyer was grey and pale, a chill settling over the expanse of the hall. Gid wished the maid would hurry up and light the fires.

  He shivered, looking up as Groves marched into the hall.

  “You’re on time,” he said. “Good. Punctuality is important.” Gid thought to mention that Groves himself was ten minutes late, then decided the better of it.

  “Did Miss Gresham explain your role to you yesterday?” Groves asked gruffly.

  Gid shook
his head faintly. “Not really, sir. Just that—”

  The butler let out an enormous sigh. “The greeting of guests at the tradesmen’s entrance,” he said. “And at the main door. Serving Miss Gresham her meals and clearing the table when she has finished. Running errands as required. I will see you thoroughly trained for the rest of the week. Come Monday, you will be on your own.”

  Gid nodded obediently, “Yes sir.” And suddenly Groves was marching across the hall towards the kitchen. Gid hurried after him.

  * * *

  By the afternoon, Gid was yet to lay eyes on Abigail. Groves had taken her meals into the dining room herself. By the time Gid had appeared to clear the table, she had already disappeared. At three, a cobbler came to the tradesmen’s entrance. He held a box out to the butler.

  “Miss Gresham’s riding boots, Mr Groves. Re-soled as requested.”

  Groves nodded, taking the box and the hastily scrawled invoice from the cobbler. Gid glanced at the bill, curious as to what a man charged for mending a pair of riding boots.

  Groves pocketed the invoice and handed the shoe box to Gid. “Wait here,” he told the cobbler. “I’ll fetch you the money from the housekeeping fund.”

  The butler disappeared for a moment, leaving Gid to swap an awkward smile with the other man. Finally, Groves reappeared and slipped the money into the cobbler’s hand.

  “Shall I take these to Miss Gresham?” Gid asked hopefully.

  “Take them upstairs to her dressing room. Third door on the right.”

  Gid nodded obediently and hurried upstairs, his heart thumping.

  Third door on the right.

  Would it be possible that Abigail might be in her dressing room this afternoon? Might he finally lay eyes on her? His mouth felt suddenly dry.

  The box under his arm, he tapped gently on the door. “Miss Gresham?” he called. “It’s me, Gid Cobbler.”

  No answer. He knocked again.

  Gid heard heavy footsteps behind him and looked over his shoulder to see Groves striding up the staircase. He clipped Gid sharply over the back of the head.

  “What do you think you’re playing at?” he said brusquely. “This is not some social visit. Just put the boots in her room and be done with it.”

  Chastened, Gid scurried into the empty dressing room and placed the shoebox beside the dressing table.

  In spite of himself, his heart had begun to beat even quicker. Here he was standing in Abigail Gresham’s dressing room. He cast a quick glance over the place, wanting to take in every detail.

  He looked over her combs and hairbrushes, her bottles of scent lined up neatly along the dressing table. Rose water, Gid remembered. She liked to wear rose water. An elaborately painted porcelain wash stand stood beside the dressing table.

  Feeling suddenly like an intruder, Gid hurried back into the hallway.

  He could hear Grove’s voice coming muffled from inside another room.

  “The cobbler arrived with your riding boots this afternoon, Miss Gresham,” he was saying. “I’ve taken three shillings from the housekeeping fund as requested.”

  Gid paused. Three shillings? He had seen the cobbler’s invoice, and it had only been for two.

  He took a step closer to the door, careful not to make a sound.

  “Very well, Mr Groves,” came Abigail’s voice. “I’ll see the fund is topped up shortly.”

  The floor creaked noisily as Groves made to leave. Gid pressed his back against the wall, narrowing his eyes at the butler.

  “What are you glaring at, boy?” Groves snapped.

  Gid hesitated. Ought he raise the issue?

  Certainly, he ought not do it here, in earshot of Abigail.

  “Nothing sir,” he said shortly. “Nothing at all.”

  * * *

  But the incident with the cobbler’s bill had left Gid rattled. Why had Groves overcharged Abigail for the mending of her shoes?

  When they were alone in the kitchen, Gid blurted, “Those boots only cost two shillings.”

  Groves glared at Gid, his steely eyes hard, “What’s your point, boy?”

  Gid met his glare, “You told Miss Gresham they cost three.”

  Groves snorted, “It would do you well not to involve yourself in others’ business, Mr Cobbler.”

  Gid eyed the butler distrustfully. He said nothing.

  Did Abigail know of this, he wondered. Did she know a slice of her wealth was ending up in Groves’ pocket? Of course not. He knew there was no way that extra shilling would find its way back to his mistress.

  That night in his attic room, he pulled out his notebook.

  Wednesday April 11th, 4.p.m., he wrote carefully.

  Mending of Miss Gresham’s riding boots, two shillings. Sum accepted by Groves: three shillings.

  Chapter 13

  Three days passed with no hint of Abigail beyond her muffled voice behind the door on the day she had spoken to Groves about the housekeeping fund.

  But on the fourth night, as Gid was making his way up the stairs to his attic room, he heard a silky voice behind him.

  “Good evening, mute.”

  His heart stumbled in his chest. For a moment, he was too nervous to turn around. He swallowed hard and turned to face her. “Good evening, Miss Gresham.”

  She was dressed simply in a pale blue day dress, her hair in a long plait down her back. Lose tendrils danced about her cheeks. At Gid’s greeting, she gave a small smile, her blue and green eyes sparkling in the lamplight.

  She took slow, careful steps towards him. Gid felt frozen in place. This was the passage to the servants’ sleeping quarters. What was she even doing in such a place? Had she come here just to seek him out? The thought made the thumping in his chest intensify.

  She stopped walking and stood close to him. “I like to take a glass of brandy of an evening,” she said smoothly. “Would you care to join me?”

  He swallowed heavily. “Brandy?” he managed. “I—”

  Abigail gave an airy laugh. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, Mr Cobbler. I shan’t bite. I simply want to hear how your first days in my service have been. I want to make sure you are comfortable here in my home.” She nodded down the hallway to where the passage broke off towards her own rooms. “Shall we?”

  A smile flicked on the edge of Gid’s lips. He nodded eagerly. Then, feeling foolish, managed: “Yes, Miss Gresham. I would like that very much.”

  Abigail flashed him a teasing smile. “Yes,” she said. “I know you would.”

  * * *

  She led him down the passage and opened one the of the doors, leading Gid into what looked like a study. He looked around, taking in the large oak desk and the bookshelf that stretched from floor to ceiling. Some of the books looked to be so old and fragile he was sure they would crumble if anyone tried to read them.

  “This was my father’s study,” Abigail told him. “It was in this very room that he built his import export business.” She sat in one of the palatial leather-arm chairs in the corner of the room. “After he died, my mother oversaw the running of the board.” She gave a wry smile. “Now it’s up to me.”

  “You oversee the running of the company’s board?” Gid repeated, hovering awkwardly beside her chair. “That sounds like a great responsibility. You must have quite a brain.”

  Abigail laughed and Gid felt his cheeks flush.

  “I should like it if I did have such a responsibility,” she said. “But it seems some men have great difficulty taking a young woman seriously. I control the board in name only. The decisions are made entirely by the men. They see it as the only way.”

  Gid lowered his eyes. He felt the need to apologise on behalf of his gender.

  Abigail fluttered a hand towards the desk. “Pour us two glasses of brandy, mute,” she said, her voice bright again.

  Gid hurried to the desk, where a bottle of brandy sat beside two crystal glasses. He filled them and handed one to Abigail. She gestured to the arm chair opposite her. “Sit.” />
  He sat. Wrapped his fingers tensely around his glass.

  Abigail took a small sip. “Tell me, mute. Have you enjoyed working for me so far?”

  “Oh yes, miss,” he gushed. “Very much.”

  “Good. And how is Mr Groves treating you?”

  Gid hesitated. Ought he mention the extra shilling Groves had taken for the riding boots? No. Not yet. He would keep a close watch on Groves. Record any further misdemeanours in his notebook. To Abigail, he said, “Groves is treating me just fine, miss.” He took a sip of brandy. Felt it slide hot down his throat.

  She smiled. “I’m glad of it. He can be quite stern, but he’s a decent man beneath.” Her lips twitched. “An improvement on those dreadful twins, I’m sure.”

  “Yes,” affirmed Gid. He’d not thought of the Flatleys once since he’d begun working at Haverstock House. He wondered fleetingly how Martha was getting on without him.

  He pushed the thought away. Now was not the time for guilt.

  “And your room?” said Abigail. “I trust it is to your liking? Is there anything you require?”

  “Oh no,” Gid gushed. “My room is very comfortable, thank you.” For a moment, he considered telling Abigail of the way he had slept in the hay loft for the past seven years. He decided against it.

  She met his eyes and smiled. “Good.” She took another sip of brandy, then shifted to the edge of the chair so her eyes were close to Gid’s. “You must not hesitate,” she said, her voice low and secretive, “To come and see me if there is anything you need. Anything you desire.”

  Gid swallowed heavily.

  “I want your time at Haverstock House to be comfortable,” she continued. “And long.”

  Gid cleared his throat. His cheeks were burning. “Yes, Miss Gresham,” he managed. “I want that too. More than anything.”

  Chapter 14

  28th September, Gid wrote. Fresh meat and pantry supplies, three shillings, twelve pence. Amount taken by Groves: Four shillings, three pence.