Mr. Singh laughed, seating himself several places distant and helping himself to the steaming dishes. “At any rate, there were alterations to be effected, and long-time occupants are always dismayed at usurpers renovating their domain.”
Mr. Singh was correct; the cellars, at least, were being subjected to significant changes, and it dismayed me. Workmen arrived before I rose in the morning, greeting me with the distant invisible clink, clink of chisels and spades as I walked to the morning room to breakfast with Sahjara; at five in the afternoon when I released her, they filed by me out the servants’ entrance, anointed with mineral-smelling mud. Twice had I begun marching down the dank stairs I already knew so well, but a member of the staff always materialised with a cordial Might I assist you? and all attempts at reconnaissance rendered thereby impossible.
The work rankled. Our cellars had been inhospitable, the remnants of ancient foundations—neither crypts nor vaults, simply stones and pillars. I did not know what Mr. Thornfield could possibly want with caves not even fit to store wine properly (a failing of which Aunt Patience was surpassingly proud).
“When did the cellar renovations commence?”
“Three months ago,” Sahjara replied. “Six months after we moved in and began redecorating—the place was dreadful, all stuffy chintzes.”
I smiled, for I agreed with her. “Is the cellar to house a wine collection? Mr. Thornfield seems to own a connoisseur’s soul.”
“He does indeed,” Mr. Singh agreed.
This was less than forthcoming.
“Is it for storage, then? This household—the exotic spices, the incense—it must be difficult to maintain here in England?”
“Not so difficult as you might imagine. Mrs. Garima Kaur, who is a highly competent individual, travels monthly to London to meet with merchants who import Punjabi essentials. She sees to it that Mrs. Jas Kaur is kept in basmati and dhal and so forth, and the rest we can easily buy from neighbouring farms.”
“Then perhaps a Sikh chapel for your rituals?” I ventured next.
“Oh, I’m sure he has plans for the place, Miss Stone.” Mr. Singh smiled effortlessly, passing me a dish of what appeared to be yogurt. “I myself shall be contented when these local stonemasons—good men but rather untutored—stop tracking filth through Mrs. Jas Kaur’s kitchen. I knew her in the Punjab as a saintly woman, and here in England, she is ready to dissolve into fits.”
As am I, I thought, over lack of headway.
? ? ?
A few hours later, I washed my face and hung my sober black dress and sat in Aunt Patience’s room with the letters from the cottage in my hands, nearly in silent tears already at the prospect of voices from beyond the grave. Wrapping my dressing gown tighter, I edged my chair towards the fireplace. This first missive was written in an older, more palsied version of Agatha’s hand:
Dear Missus Jane, supposing ever you return,
Your aunt weren’t about to do the job herself, but know that I searched and searched for you. Should you find this, well and good, I’ve done what I’m meant to. Should you not, I hope no harm to anyone who may come across it.
That school was as awful as awful can be, I’d wager, and I don’t fault your quitting the place—send word, and we’ll all be just as happy as fish in a lake. I’m to go to——Court,——shire to be with my sister, who’s always been my elder and thus an old woman now in need of some comfort.
This new fellow what owns the estate, Mr. Charles Thornfield, seems both a decent sort and terrible peculiar. He has his winning ways, and his peevish ones, but there’s no faulting a soldier for quirks—they catch them abroad, and there’s an end to the matter.
Mr. Cyrus Sneeves can explain something of the papers. Write to him should you have any questions, but supposing you want to leave well enough alone, I shouldn’t fault you either.
Best of luck always,
Agatha
I examined the rest of the stack. Here were more correspondences between Anne-Laure Steele and Cyrus Sneeves and, like the ones I had read so long ago, they dealt mainly with ensuring our claim to Highgate House; my mother’s penmanship appeared next, her faintly accented voice in my ear as I read:
Rue M——,
2nd Arrondissement,
TUESDAY
Dear Mr. Sneeves,
I wish to thank you for having granted me such a thorough understanding of our situation. The difficulty as I see it lies in the honouring of our arrangement in perpetuity. Patience Barbary is dead set against us—and when I imagine myself in her shoes, I cannot bring myself to censure her. On ne peut rien y faire, however, and it only remains to discover a trusted party willing to visit consequences upon Mrs. Barbary should she ever attempt to disinherit my Jane.
Suggestions to this purpose will be met with gratitude; in the meanwhile, please move forward as discussed.
Je vous prie d’agréer,
Mrs. Anne-Laure Steele
The hairs at my nape bristled. My mother had regarded Patience Barbary with as much affection as she held for dung stuck to the sole of a heeled French boot; yet I read a curious reluctance in her wording, regret over the fact Aunt Patience would be angry, which I had never glimpsed in life.
The reply told me little, meanwhile: