Tipping his cap again, he falls in with the pack.
Keeping to the edge of the road, I carry on towards the stables, the loose cobbles slowing me down considerably. In my other hosts, I simply leapt aside when one slid beneath me. Dance’s old legs aren’t nimble enough for that, and every time one wobbles under my weight, it twists my ankles and knees, threating to tip me over.
Vexed, I pass beneath the arch to find oats, hay and smashed fruit littering the courtyard, a boy doing his best to sweep the debris into the corners. He’d probably have more luck if he wasn’t half the size of the brush. He peeks at me shyly as I pass, trying to doff his cap but only succeeding in losing it to the wind. The last I see of him, he’s chasing it across the yard as though all his dreams were stuffed inside.
The path nestled alongside the paddock is little more than a muddy trail rotten with puddles, and my trousers are already filthy by the time I’m halfway along. Twigs are cracking, rain dripping from the plants. I have the sense of being watched, and though there’s nothing to suggest it’s anything more than nerves, I swear I can feel a presence among the trees, a pair of eyes dogging my steps. I can only hope I’m mistaken, because if the footman does spring onto the path, I’m too weak to fight and too slow to run. The rest of my life will be precisely how long it takes him to pick a way of killing me.
Seeing no sign of the stablemaster or Lady Hardcastle, I sacrifice my deportment completely, splattering mud up my back as I break into a worried trot.
The trail soon veers away from the paddock and into the forest, that sense of being watched only growing as I move further away from the stables. Brambles snatch at my clothes as I push through, until finally I hear the murmur of approaching voices and the lapping of water against the shore. Relief overwhelms me, and I realise I’ve been holding my breath this entire time. We’re face to face in two steps, though it’s not Lady Hardcastle I find accompanying the stablemaster, but rather Cunningham, Ravencourt’s valet. He’s wearing a thick coat and the long purple scarf he’ll struggle to tug loose when he interrupts Ravencourt speaking with Daniel.
The banker must be asleep in the library. Their alarm at bumping into me suggests they were discussing far more than mere gossip.
It’s Cunningham who recovers first, smiling amiably.
‘Mr Dance, what a pleasant surprise,’ he says. ‘What brings you out on this foul morning?’
‘I was looking for Helena Hardcastle,’ I say, glancing from Cunningham to the stablemaster. ‘I was under the impression she was taking a walk with Mr Miller here.’
‘No, sir,’ says Miller, kneading his cap between his hands. ‘Supposed to be meeting at my cottage, sir. I’m on my way there now.’
‘We three find ourselves in the same boat then,’ says Cunningham. ‘I was also hoping to catch her. Perhaps we can go along together. My business shouldn’t take very long, but I’ll be happy to stand in line, as it were.’
‘And what is your business?’ I ask, as we begin walking back towards the stables. ‘It was my understanding you met with Lady Hardcastle before breakfast.’
The directness of my question momentarily unsettles his good cheer, a flash of annoyance passing across his face.
‘A few matters for Lord Hardcastle,’ he says. ‘You know how these things are. One mess soon leads to another.’
‘But you have seen the lady of the house today?’ I say.
‘Indeed, first thing.’
‘How did she seem?’
He shrugs, frowning at me. ‘I couldn’t say. Our talk was very brief. May I ask where these questions are leading, Mr Dance? I rather feel like I’m facing you in court.’
‘Nobody else has seen Lady Hardcastle today. That strikes me as strange.’
‘Perhaps she’s wary of being pestered with questions,’ he says, flaring.
We arrive at the stablemaster’s cottage in an irritated mood, Mr Miller writhing in discomfort as he invites us inside. It’s as neat and orderly as the last time I was here, although much too small for three men and their secrets.
I take the chair by the table, while Cunningham inspects the bookcase, and the stablemaster frets, doing his best to tidy an already tidy cottage.
We wait for ten minutes, but Lady Hardcastle never arrives.
It’s Cunningham who breaks the silence.
‘Well, it seems the lady has other plans,’ he says, checking his watch. ‘I’d better get off, I’m expected in the library. Good morning to you, Mr Dance, Mr Miller,’ he says, inclining his head before opening the door and departing.
Miller looks up at me nervously.
‘What about you, Mr Dance?’ he says. ‘Will you be waiting longer?’
I ignore this, and join him by the fireplace.
‘What were you speaking with Cunningham about?’ I ask.
He stares at the window, as though his answers are coming by messenger. I snap my fingers in front of his face, drawing his watery eyes towards me.
‘At this moment, I’m simply curious, Mr Miller,’ I say in a low voice dripping with unpleasant possibilities. ‘In a minute or so, I’ll be annoyed. Tell me what you were speaking about.’
‘He wanted somebody to show him around,’ he says, jutting out his lower lip, revealing the pink flesh within. ‘Wanted to see the lake, he did.’
Whatever Miller’s skills in this world, lying is not one of them. His elderly face is a mass of wrinkles and overhanging flesh, more than enough material for his emotions to build a stage from. Every frown is a tragedy, every smile a farce. A lie, sitting as it does somewhere between both, is enough to collapse the entire performance.
Placing my hand on his shoulder, I lower my face to his, watching as his eyes flee mine.
‘Charles Cunningham grew up on this estate, Mr Miller, as well you know. He has no need of a tour guide. Now, what were you discussing?’
He shakes his head. ‘I promised—’
‘I can make promises too, Miller, but you won’t enjoy mine.’
My fingers press into his collarbone, tight enough to make him wince.