Beedle has suggested that you might take on the duty.’
She must have mistaken my look of amazement for reluctance and went on, rather impatiently.
‘I am sure you could accommodate it with your other duties. Mrs Sims could supervise some of the children’s lessons, if necessary.’
Almost overcome by relief and my good luck, I assured her, truthfully, that nothing would give me more pleasure.
‘Thank you, Miss Lock. I suggest you start this afternoon. I shall have a table brought into this room for you. The first thing I want you to do is make a complete and accurate copy of the guest lists here.’ She picked up from her desk several pages pinned together. My eyes followed the lists like a dog craving a bone. ‘Then you may use it to work from when you do the place cards. You understand?’
‘Perfectly, Mrs Quivering. I’m delighted to have an opportunity to be of use.’
By mid-afternoon I was sitting by the window in the housekeeper’s room, the precious lists on the table in front of me. There were three of them, the longest, some 120 names, consisted of those invited to the ball on the Saturday night. A shorter one listed the 40 guests who would also be at dinner the night before. An even more select group of 20 would be staying at Mandeville Hall for the weekend, the majority bringing valets or maids with them.
I read through the lists, looking for names I recognised. The house guests included one duke, two lords, four baronets and their ladies, and six Members of Parliament. (I refrain from giving their names here because most of them were nothing worse than foolish and easily flattered, and I am sure they would not now want the world to know that they had ever set foot in Mandeville Hall.) I racked my brains, trying to remember what I’d heard or read about any of them. The duke was eighty years old or so, and I remembered from accounts of Reform Bill debates in the Lords that he had been a bitter opponent of it. Given his host’s views on the subject, it was not surprising to find him on the guest list. The same applied to two of the Members of Parliament, both to my knowledge die-hard Tories of the old school. I’d heard my father talk about them. It was a reasonable guess that the other four, of whom I’d never heard, shared their opinions.
‘Have you everything you need, Miss Lock?’
Mrs Quivering came sweeping into the room, followed by her assistant, who was burdened with a bad cold and an armful of bedsheets.
‘Yes, thank you, Mrs Quivering.’
I started mixing ink. The ink powder and pens were of fine quality, much better than in the schoolroom. Mrs Quivering took a bedsheet from the pile in her assistant’s arms and spread it out on her table. They were on the far side of the room from me, so I couldn’t hear all of their conversation but gathered that some wretch in the laundry room had ironed them with the creases in the wrong places. Then they started talking about other things. I caught ‘wheel off’ and ‘didn’t get here till nearly midday’ and stopped stirring ink powder so that I could listen more carefully.
‘… blue room all ready for him, then we have to change it because his man must sleep in the room next to him. So Mr Brighton offers to take the blue room, his valet goes upstairs with the others, and Lord Kilkeel has the oak room, which was …’
She unfolded another sheet, muffling the end of what she was saying. I looked at the papers I was to copy. A Mr H. Brighton was at the top of the list of guests who would be staying at Mandeville Hall, with Lord Kilkeel just below him. Which was the fat man and which was fashion plate?
‘Take them back,’ Mrs Quivering said, sighing. ‘Tell her she’s to do them again in her own time, and I don’t care how long she has to stay.’ She heaped the sheets back into her assistant’s arms. ‘Miss Lock, Mrs Beedle says when you do the place cards you must make your ‘s’s the English way, not the French way.’
Soon afterwards she went out, leaving me alone with the lists. It was clear to me that I must make not one but two copies, one to stay in Mrs Quivering’s office, the other for Mr Blackstone. It was an awkward business because my sleeve kept brushing the wet ink and making smudges, so I had to use quantities of blotting paper and the inkwell seemed as thirsty as a dog on a hot day, needing constant replenishing. I was never a tidy worker, not even in convent days, and got blots on my cuffs, smears on my face, the top two joints of my pen finger so soaked with ink I thought it must be black to the very bone. I had no time now to register the names I was copying: they were just words to be harvested. Mrs Quivering came back towards evening and seemed to approve of my industry, even showed some concern.
‘You’ll miss your supper, Miss Lock.’
‘I think I should like to finish the lists today, Mrs Quivering.’
The true reason was that I wanted to have a reason not to be there if the children were sent for. The fat man and fashion plate were under Mandeville’s roof now and would surely be in the drawing room before dinner. Fashion plate might not recognise the boy from the loosebox, but the fat man would surely remember the woman who’d butted him in the stomach. How I’d avoid him for a whole week, I didn’t know.
Mrs Quivering was so pleased by my zeal that she had sandwiches and a pot of tea sent in, proper plump beef sandwiches on good white bread. I tried not to get ink on the sandwiches as I ate, then went back to copying. It was a fine evening outside, but the light inside was past its best and my eyes were tired.
I was near the end of the ball guest list when the door opened. It was Celia, in a flurry of pink silk and white ribbons.
‘Betty said you were here. Have you got my letter?’
I’d brought it down with me and had it under the blotter. She went over to the window and read, her hand shaking so much I was surprised she could make out the writing.
‘Oh, thank God.’
Her body sagged in a swish of silk and muslin. I think she’d have fallen to the floor if I had not jumped up and caught her. I put her down in my chair and she still clung to me.
‘What’s wrong?’ I said.
‘Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s right. Philip will come for me.’
‘When?’
‘He leaves that to me. He’ll come to Ascot and be ready for a word from me. Oh, I can’t think. You must help me think.’
I had no wish to be an accomplice in an elopement – my life was too tangled already – but I could hardly desert her.
‘When will he get to Ascot?’
‘Tuesday, he says. Wednesday at the latest. But how shall I get away? If I as much as walk in the garden, somebody notices. And now Mr Brighton’s here …’
She said the name as if she’d bitten into something bad-tasting.
‘Mr Brighton?’
‘Didn’t you see him? Oh, I forgot, you didn’t come down with the children.’
She made a face, pushed out her lips and pretended to smear something on them with her little finger. It was exactly the gesture of fashion plate with his lip balm.
‘So the fat one is Lord Kilkeel,’ I said.
‘Yes. Isn’t he the most hideous person you’ve ever
