I pointed to my case, and he hauled it out and set off towards the right-hand side of the enormous house.
‘We’ll get you introduced,’ he said, ‘then one of the boys can carry your bag up to your room – I think they’ve put you in with Mrs Beddows’s maid, but she’s not here till tomorrow, so you should have the place to yourself tonight, at least.’
‘Mrs Beddows?’ I said.
‘One of Lady Lavinia’s friends. She’s a bit quiet, but you’ll like her, I’m sure.’
‘Mrs Beddows?’ I said, again.
He laughed. ‘No, her maid. Mrs Beddows is a right cow.’
It was my turn to laugh.
He conducted me down the side of the house to a flight of stone steps that led down to the servants’ entrance, where he let himself in, gesturing me to follow him. ‘Labyrinthine’ is a word much overused. Actually, it probably isn’t overused, now I come to think of it, but it’s certainly a word that has lost some of its power by being used to describe any vaguely twisty route, and now no longer seems adequate to describe the system of passages beneath Codrington Hall. I quickly gave up trying to remember landmarks and turns, and instead devoted all my attention to following my guide. Theseus would long since have run out of thread before we finally reached the servants’ hall, and poor old Ariadne would have died an old maid, ravaged by regret that her lover was lost forever for want of a bigger ball of thread. A much bigger ball of thread.
Eventually, we reached the spacious servants’ hall where the staff would congregate and eat. A footman sat at the long table with newspaper spread in front of him, polishing a large silver dish. He looked up as we walked in.
‘How do, Evan?’ said Morgan cheerfully.
The footman nodded.
‘This is Miss Armstrong, Lady Hardcastle’s maid. You couldn’t do us a favour and run her case up to the spare room next to Lily and Rose’s, could you? She’s sharin’ it with Mrs Beddows’s maid when they get here.’
‘I got this polishin’ to do,’ he said sullenly.
‘Go on, it’ll only take you a couple of minutes.’
‘Why can’t you do it?’ said the footman in the same resentful tone.
‘I’ve got to put the motor away, ’aven’t I? Go on, you lazy beggar. You could have done it in the time it’s taken you to sit there tellin’ me how busy you are.’
‘Mr Spinney won’t like it if he finds out I’ve been galivantin’ about the house while I’m s’posed to be doin’ this.’
‘Mr Spinney would be delighted that you’d helped a guest feel welcome and comfortable in his lordship’s home,’ persisted Morgan.
‘Mr Spinney would indeed,’ said a deep voice from the doorway to our right. ‘Up off your backside and do as you’re asked, Evan Gudger. This instant.’
A tall man with thinning dark hair entered the room and inclined his head towards me. ‘How do you do, Miss Armstrong? My name is Spinney, his lordship’s butler. I trust you had a pleasant journey.’
‘How do you do, Mr Spinney? Yes, thank you, it was long, but comfortable.’
‘Good, good,’ said the butler. ‘Welcome to Codrington Hall. One of the housemaids will show you to your mistress’s room while Evan here takes your case up for you, and we can get you settled into your own room later. Dinner is at eight, and his lordship prefers to dress informally. You’re welcome to dine with us, or we can have a tray sent up to your room, as you prefer.’
‘Thank you, Mr Spinney,’ I said with a smile. ‘I’m sure I shall be all in by the time I’ve finished my day’s work, so a tray would be most welcome. You’re very kind.’
‘Not at all,’ he said warmly. ‘I always feel that his lordship’s guests have come to relax, so it’s our duty to try to give their servants a break, too. Of course, should you desire some company, we’re a friendly enough crowd, but I know I relish a few moments on my own once in a while. Now then, boys, off you go. Let’s get our guests settled.’
I nodded my thanks, and followed the maid out of the hall, along more labyrinthine passages to the servants’ stairs, and eventually to Lady Hardcastle’s room.
Lady Hardcastle was sitting at a small desk by the window, writing in what appeared to be her journal, and while I made a start on the unpacking, she continued with her writing.
The room’s furniture was the traditional country house hotchpotch of styles. The aristocracy didn’t really go in for buying furniture; they inherited most of it, and bought only the individual items they felt they lacked. So the bed (a monumental construction of carved mahogany) didn’t match the wardrobe (delicate and fussy with an inlaid flower motif), which didn’t match the writing desk and chair (Louis XVI with fiddly gold bits). The tallboy looked newer, and the washstand might have been bought that year. Somehow, though, when it was all set against the wonderful green wallpaper, it didn’t seem at all wrong. I got closer to the wallpaper to take a better look.
‘William Morris,’ said Lady Hardcastle, who had noticed my perusal.
‘I thought it might be,’ I said carelessly.
‘Don’t fib,’ she said. ‘It’s called “Larkspur”, and I’m surprised to see it here, to be honest. Someone in the Codrington line must have had artistic ambitions.’
‘You’ve seen it before?’ I said.
‘A tutor at Cambridge had it in his drawing room. His wife was a rather gifted artist herself. She was very proud of her William Morris paper, but it’s not the sort of thing earls buy.’
‘Well, I’m glad someone did,’ I said. ‘I like it.’
‘Me too.’ She finally put down her pen. ‘What’s it like below stairs?’
‘Huge and surprisingly quiet, but that might just be because I didn’t see the busy parts. The butler seems friendly.’
‘Spinney,’ she said absently, as she looked out of the window.
‘The very same. How did you . . . ?’
‘Fishy – I suppose I ought to get used to calling him that; everyone else does – Fishy gave me all the gup on the staff.’
‘The “gup”, my lady?’
‘The gup, the gossip, the tittle and, what’s more, the tattle.’
‘I’ve never heard the word before,’ I said, folding a shawl into a drawer.
‘Really? My father used it all the time.’
‘Ah, that would explain it.’
‘Old-fashioned, you think?’
‘A tiny bit, my lady. Upon whom else were you vouchsafed “the gup”?’
‘Goodness, Flo, I was pleased enough with myself for recalling the name of the butler. You expect me to remember everyone else as well?’
‘Sorry, my lady. I sometimes forget that your poor old mind is ravaged by creeping senility.’
‘Indeed it is, dear, indeed it is. There was something about the cook, who’s an absolute poppet, apparently, but don’t ask me her name. Young Morgan Coleman has made quite an impression with his chauffeuring and mechanic-ing, but I’d surmised as much for myself. He mentioned the housekeeper . . . Mrs . . . Mrs . . . Mrs McSomething, I think.’
‘You’ve done well, my lady,’ I said. ‘And you’ve remembered many of their names into the bargain.’
‘As fly as ever, me, dear. He did also say when dinner was, but I’ve quite forgotten.’
‘Eight, my lady. Informal.’