‘Betsy,’ Sarah suggested. ‘Or Daisy.’
‘For heaven’s sake, have a little imagination. Something more poetic.’
‘She does not look very poetic at present,’ Underwood observed.
‘On the contrary! She is a distressed soul coming out of purgatory into a perfect cow-heaven – if that is not a blasphemous thing to say, Mr Underwood.’
A smile tickled his lips. ‘She is Dante’s Beatrice, then?’
Elsie didn’t know who that was, but she liked the sound of the name. ‘Beatrice the cow.’
‘Well, I hope her expectations will be as grand as her name.’
Peters came and took the rope from Underwood’s hand. Softly clicking his tongue, he encouraged Beatrice to follow him to a stall. She shambled off, her overgrown hooves slipping on the cobbles.
‘I was so pleased,’ said Underwood, ‘when Mrs Holt told me of your plan to take the cow. Usually the villagers are reluctant to deal with the big house. But with winter coming on, they finally saw the sense of it.’
‘I should think so! I offered a pretty price for a bag of bones.’ As soon as she said the words, she regretted them. She sounded just like her father.
‘I know, Mrs Bainbridge. You were very good to suggest the trade, I am well aware of that. You must not take their little eccentricities amiss. Poor people can be very proud.’
Elsie thought of the match girls, of Pa’s grasping fingers. ‘Not in London,’ she said.
Elsie took Mr Underwood to the first floor. She felt it would be beneficial to bring a vicar near the nursery. His presence might banish . . . whatever it was. Whatever was making her and Sarah see things that were not there.
With Mabel laid up, the house was increasingly worse for wear. Elsie found a peppering of woodchips on the landing and long, deep scratches in the floor, as though heavy objects had been dragged across it. Thankfully the parlour remained presentable, pleasantly warmed by the afternoon sun.
Elsie gestured to a sofa upholstered in pale daffodil silk and bid Underwood sit down. She rang a bell for tea, without holding much hope for its success.
‘A delightful room, Mrs Bainbridge. I like the framed butterflies exceedingly. But who are our friends?’
She followed his gaze. ‘Oh!’
Standing either side of the dwindling fire were the companions.
But weren’t they just . . . Hadn’t she seen them in the Great Hall?
The girl looked sweetly apologetic, pressing the white rose to her chest as if begging for indulgence. But not the boy; his baleful eyes met hers with a direct challenge.
Sarah moved to take a chair opposite Mr Underwood. ‘We found them in the garret a few days ago. They are curious items, are they not? Our housemaid must have brought them upstairs.’
But why would Helen do that? Did she make the scratches on the floor as she pulled them along?
‘It is very clever artistry,’ Underwood replied. ‘They look almost as if they would speak.’
Sarah giggled. Elsie tried to laugh, but it came out in a strained wheeze. ‘I do find myself a little lonely, knocking around this old place. These figures are my guests until I am permitted to invite real ones. But if I ever tell you that they have started talking to me, Mr Underwood, I give you permission to send me to Bedlam.’
He smiled gently. ‘I am sorry to learn you are lonely. We shall always be happy to see you at church. Come along on Sunday.’
Unexpectedly, her throat closed up with tears. She looked down at her hands. For the first time in her widowhood, she felt she might scream and howl like Ma. ‘I shall. I daresay it looks odd that I have not come before, but I did not feel . . . I was not equal to it. But I have had some encouragement today. The villagers seemed almost friendly as we drove past.’
‘But of course. It is all thanks to – erm – Beatrice. I told everyone about your plan to feed her up and pass on the milk. She has not been healthy enough to produce for many a year. Butter and milk will make a huge difference to the villagers’ lives. Especially the children.’
‘To be sure. I would do more if I could. I would employ the people. Do you know why they will not work for my family? Is it just the skeletons we spoke of? Mrs Holt said there was also an accident with a footman, years back?’
‘Well . . .’ He paused, fingers twitching at his lip. ‘It seems to be a mixture of folk tales and superstition. I quite forgot to fetch you those records I mentioned, Mrs Bainbridge, but I remember there was some balderdash about a suspected witch.’
Sarah sat forward with interest. ‘That could be the diary I am reading! Anne Bainbridge, my ancestor. She had a talent with herbs and made brews for good luck. She seemed to think she had a power. Did the villagers really believe she was a witch?’
Mr Underwood sighed. ‘It is very likely, Miss Bainbridge. People were not rational back then. And your family have been unlucky with their servants. Several have died in accidents, and of course the village wants someone to blame . . .’ He held up his hands. ‘This is how rumours are born. But I have hopes that, with education, we might eradicate superstition in the next generation. I must admit, Mrs Bainbridge, to being a trifle radical in my notions. I believe every child should have an education, regardless of their circumstances. They should be given the tools they need in this world.’
‘I could not agree more.’ She recalled little Jolyon with his abacus, tongue stuck out in concentration. It created a painful knot in her chest. ‘Perhaps you should set up a school here?’
The smile lighting his face was so wide and genuine that for a moment she saw why Sarah admired him. ‘Would you help me?’
‘When I can. Miss Bainbridge would be more fitted to the task. She will be out of mourning in less than a month. She can do many things that would not be seemly for a widow.’
‘Oh yes, do let me help, Mr Underwood!’ Sarah clapped her hands together. Her bandage muffled the sound. ‘I think it’s a wonderful idea. Mrs Crabbly left me a little legacy, and I will make a donation. We must help the children.’
Suddenly the gravestones were before her eyes again. Buried under a borrowed name. Those poor little girls . . . She would not keep all of Rupert’s money for her own baby. There were other children: unprotected, vulnerable.
The thought made her queasy. A sour taste was filling her mouth. She rose abruptly to her feet. Things shimmered, became uncertain and shifting. ‘Will you . . . Please excuse me? I must . . . go and see after that tea.’
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of the first companion. It had never looked so much like her. Her own face, watching her.