it must surely lead from the garden. Beyond it, however, is another huge partition – vegetable plots, fruit trees and greenhouses, and four more blue doors to choose between. He’s attempting to orientate himself when Tom’s boot-steps come crunching across the stones behind him.
‘A reward, Will Turner? For your kind assistance last night?’
Will tries not to react. ‘Which way is the damn waterfall?’
‘And you played it so very coy up on the hill. Mrs Lamb ain’t an entirely prudent choice, it has to be said, but I know how these things can be.’
‘Damn your eyes, Tom, which way?’ Will says, more loudly. Then he pauses. ‘Prudent?’
Tom grins; he pulls open his collar and nods towards one of the doors. ‘A woman with enemies can be interesting. Out here, though, I honestly believe it’s more likely to bite you than otherwise.’
Will thinks again of Mr Cope’s warning; and of Mr Noakes, on that first afternoon, the way he’d spoken to her. ‘What the devil are you on about?’
This last door opens onto a grove of oak and beech. Tom walks out in front. ‘You must’ve seen how she is. She riles them something awful – all the senior ones, and a number of the juniors too. Too much sauce. Too much nerve. The truth of it is she’s just not fitted for a house like this. There was an ally – the housekeeper, Mrs Linley – a protector, if you like; but she took her leave in the spring. You’ve noticed that they ain’t got a replacement yet?’
Will hadn’t. ‘What of the husband?’
‘D’you really not know?’ asks Tom. He laughs at Will’s discomfort. ‘You can be at ease there. She was widowed, the others think, some time afore she came to Harewood.’
They emerge from the trees. In front of them is the boating pond, its surface aglow in the early evening light. Skating insects etch wide circles upon this golden film, while wild ducks dip among the reeds at its edge, their webbed feet batting the air. Away to the left is the wooden bridge that leads back to the house. Will can hear the waterfall, hidden in the undergrowth, whispering beneath the birdsong and the shifting of leaves.
‘She’s good,’ Tom continues. ‘Without equal, they’ll tell you, in the domain of preserves, pickles and suchlike. It’s the only thing that’s kept her here. But it won’t save her. A new housekeeper will be appointed before the summer’s end, and rooting the unruly Irishwoman from the still room will be close to the top of her list.’
Will frowns. ‘She’s a gypsy, ain’t she? Like them up on the moors?’
‘Irish is what I was told. Travelling stock – came over in childhood. Started off in the kitchens of Leeds.’ Tom takes out his pipe. ‘And she’ll be back in them soon enough.’
The frown deepens; then Will shakes his head, as if to be rid of a bothersome fly. None of this is his concern. He’s been at Harewood for two days only, and in a few hours he’ll be gone, off to another part of the country altogether, following his proper course. He passes the bridge, climbs down a bank thick with ivy and turns to survey the waterfall.
It is a mere trickle, fifteen feet tall at most, buried in the shadow of the bridge and the surrounding trees. Mystery and majesty are completely absent, and the picturesque also: it is mundane
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