Straw in the Wind Read online

  ‘Leave the tray please, Maggie. Sara will see to me. I can see I’m going to have to train her into doing things my way.’

  ‘If you say so, sir.’ Maggie offered her a smug look.

  After Maggie had left, she said, ‘How did you lose your sight, Mr Leighton?’

  ‘It happened five years ago, when I killed my wife in an accident . . . it was a blow to the head. I survived, but my sight did not.’

  She refused to give in to the shock she felt at his words. ‘How do you like your tea?’

  ‘Is that all you’ve got to say?’

  ‘What do you want me to say? I can’t argue with you because I wasn’t there. You were lucky.’

  ‘You were twelve then, and probably still in your nursery.’

  ‘No, sir . . . I was in the workhouse then. We slept three to a bed. How did you say you wanted your tea?’

  ‘I didn’t.’ He gave a small huff of annoyance. ‘Milk in first, and the liquid one inch from the top. There’s a small groove on the surface of the table. Place the cup and saucer there with the handle facing towards the door. The plate with the cake goes to the left of it.’

  She did as she was asked and watched as he reached for the cup then lifted it to his lips. ‘Stop watching me and tell me what you look like, Sara. What colour are your eyes?’

  She chuckled. ‘Almost the same colour as yours.’

  ‘What are mine like? I forget.’

  She doubted it as she gazed at them. They were lighter than hers and they looked like normal eyes, though the dark centre didn’t seem to react. ‘They’re the colour of toffee . . . or dark amber.’

  ‘Ah, you’re a poet. I would call them brown.’

  ‘Are you sure you can’t see?’

  ‘Quite sure, though sometimes I think I can see light. The doctor tells me I might be imagining it, and I probably am. My father had brown eyes too. Which parent did you inherit your eye colour from?’

  ‘I couldn’t say . . . I never knew either of them.’

  He sucked in a breath. ‘I’m sorry, that was insensitive of me.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think about it much. Besides, it’s best to ask if you want to know something.’

  ‘You’re pragmatic for one so young.’ When she didn’t answer he said, ‘You do know what that means, don’t you?’

  She smiled. ‘I’ve always had to take a practical approach. I learned to read and write and I have a good memory.’

  ‘So you’re educated and can play the piano, despite being in a workhouse? Why did you say I was lucky?’

  ‘Because you could see before the accident and know about colours, shapes and objects. If you’d been born without sight it would have been much harder.’

  ‘I haven’t thought about the accident from that angle.’

  ‘Then perhaps you should. It will encourage you to appreciate what you have.’

  He laughed. ‘You’re disconcerting, and I don’t know whether I like you, Sara Finn. I’m sorry I cursed. I hope I didn’t shock you.’

  ‘I’ve heard worse curses . . . or should that be better curses? And may I make one thing clear, Mr Leighton? I find you disconcerting too, and haven’t decided whether I like you, either.’

  ‘Then we’ll get on famously, I’m sure. You’re not going to allow me to feel sorry for myself, are you? I warn you, I do on occasion.’

  She grinned. He was an unusual man and she was warming to him. ‘I shouldn’t think so. Will you mind if I go now? I was about to clean the drawing room when the piano practice interrupted.’

  ‘Yes, I will mind. Eat your cake, drink your tea and make polite conversation . . . if you can. You’re my housekeeper, and we have things to discuss, since I don’t want any more unpleasant surprises, like obstacles left in my path.’

  The gentle reprimand reminded her that this man was her employer, and her straightforwardness could be mistaken for familiarity. Her face heated. Thank goodness he couldn’t see her embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. I’ve never run a household before and thought I’d been hired as a maid, not the housekeeper.’

  ‘You came with an excellent reference, I understand.’

  ‘Yes. From Mrs Pawley. I worked in the Pawley household for four years.’

  ‘And left there because . . .?’

  Her face reddened even more and she mumbled. ‘There was a disagreement with one of Reverend Pawley’s children. I slapped him and Reverend Pawley dismissed me.’

  ‘You slapped your employer’s infant? Are you usually violent towards children?’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ she said desperately. ‘Albert isn’t an infant . . . he’s about my age.’ She unleashed a dash of fierceness. ‘I’d slap him again if I had to, only harder.’

  The stately tick of the carriage clock that stood on the mantelpiece marked the sudden silence. It was a pretty clock enamelled with flowers and it had a melodious chime on the hour and also struck the quarter. She’d wound it only that morning.

  His voice was a bit of a sigh when he said, ‘Ah . . . now I understand. The Reverend Pawley dispensed with your services for your own protection.’

  She snorted.

  ‘Come, come, Sara,’ he said softly. ‘The man couldn’t have kept you in his employ under the circumstances.’

  ‘I agree, but neither did he have the right to blame the incident on me. He owed me over three years’ wages when I left. He said he’d educated, fed me and housed me for several years as well as giving me a shilling to spend now and again, and that would have to do.’

  ‘Did he educate you?’

  ‘I could read and write before I got there, we were taught in the workhouse, but I could do both before that. I was allowed to sit in the children’s lessons with Mrs Pawley. She was the governess then. In return I used to help teach the younger ones. I needed that money, I wanted it to put towards my house.’

  His brow furrowed. ‘Your house . . . you have your own house?’

  ‘Not yet, sir. It’s the house I’m going to buy when I’ve saved enough money. It needn’t be big, but it must have two bedrooms at least. It’s for my old age, you see, in case I don’t marry and have children, but become an old spinster. The spare room is so I can take in a respectable, paying lady boarder. I wouldn’t want to end up back in the workhouse. I’m going to be called by my proper name then, too.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Serafina.’

  He gave a faint smile. ‘After a famous Italian abbess. You’re surprisingly sensible for one so young, you know.’

  ‘You have to be when you’re poor.’ She ate a second piece of cake. It was delicious, and she sighed. ‘Maggie’s a good cook.’

  ‘She is that. Might there be any of that cake left?’

  She placed it on his plate, then said, ‘Another cup of tea, sir?’

  ‘Yes please, Serafina Finn. So tell me, where did you get that unusual name from?’

  ‘It was on a piece of paper that said who I was. I was named after an aunt, though people usually called me Sara because they couldn’t spell Serafina. I’m used to Sara.’

  ‘Then that’s what I’ll call you, and we’ll use Serafina for special occasions. Do you still have the paper?’

  ‘No, sir. I think it was burned.’

  ‘Then you can’t prove who you are. Can you remember your aunt?’

  She poised for a moment with the teapot held in mid-air, then poured the liquid into the cup. ‘Sometimes I can remember an elderly woman with wrinkles around her mouth and eyes, and with a loud voice. I think that might have been her.’ She thought for a moment then said, ‘I have a feeling that she was kind.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘I don’t know, because when I remember her I don’t have any bad thoughts, and I missed her when she left, I recall.’

  ‘You forgot to put the milk in first.’

  ‘Sorry . . . how did you know?’

  ‘My hearing is acute, as is my sense of smell.’


  ‘Does it make any difference to the taste?’

  ‘Damned if I know. I’m a creature of habit, and that’s the way I’ve always done it.’

  Adding the milk in she stirred it with a silver spoon, hoping that Maggie had washed it after she’d polished it. It seemed to be satisfactory to his taste.

  There was a knock at the door and her employer’s valet came in. He winked at her. ‘Sir?’

  ‘What is it, Oscar?’

  ‘I’ve checked the house and all is satisfactory.’

  ‘Good, then I’ll go up to my room and change. Thank you for your company, Sara. I’ll leave you to get on with your tasks.’

  She didn’t know whether to be relieved or not after he left, unaided, except for his stick. He must have counted the steps, she thought, because as he neared the stair he extended the stick he carried to locate the first one.

  Carrying the tray back to the kitchen she complimented Maggie on her cake then called to Fanny to bring a bucket of warm water.

  Later, she went past the small sitting room. The door was open and she saw Finch Leighton sitting in his chair, his face turned towards the sun coming in the window. How boring to be without sight, she thought. She must try and think of something that would keep him occupied.

  There was very little left to do in the house now, just the day-to-day upkeep to keep it clean. When she knocked at the door he turned his head her way and smiled. ‘Sara?’

  ‘Yes . . . would you like me to read to you, sir?’

  ‘Not at the moment, I’m quite happy with my thoughts. But thank you.’

  She wondered what those thoughts were as she backed away.

  Finch was thinking about Sara.

  His new housekeeper was certainly efficient, if a little pert. Still, she was youthful and had answered his questions with honesty, but sometimes with an air of defensiveness. She would not be a subservient member of staff but she would get things done – already had in the short time she’d been here.

  Oscar had gleaned enough from the staff to discover that she’d already put Maggie in her place. Fanny liked her and thought she was pretty, Giles had a healthy respect for her and Joseph said she was a sprightly piece of goods, like his wife had been. Oscar had told him she had a face with delicate bones, with a small nose, fair skin, a big smile and long dark hair that reached to the small of her back.

  She also smelled good as she moved past him in a stir of fragrant air. She was a mixture of polish, to which lavender oil had been added unless he was mistaken, of scrubbing soap and roses. In fact, her smell blended with the house.

  He rose and moved around his sitting room. Once it had been his parents’ house, but his mother had married and had gone to live in America after the death of his father. She had died there. Diana had taken it over, refurnishing it to her own taste. Now and again she’d entertained her friends here and the room had resonated with laughter as they’d gossiped together.

  Picking up an ornament from a table his fingers ran over it. It was the shepherdess in her blue frilly dress. A hand’s width away was the shepherd. The ball of Finch’s thumb sought out a small imperfection in the glaze. He’d won them at a shooting contest at the local fete the year after he’d married Diana.

  He worked his way around the room. Here on the lounge were four embroidered cushions his wife had fashioned, depicting Leighton Manor in the various seasons. Summer had been left unfinished, and Mrs Cornwell had completed it. If he was careful he could feel the change in the embroidery stitches. Diana’s stitching had been so fine when compared to Mrs Cornwell’s, which was slightly clumsier . . . though that could be in his imagination.

  He voiced his thoughts, reminding himself. ‘Because I loved Diana I now think of her as perfection.’ She’d been far from it.

  He moved to the mantelpiece, using the map in his mind. Lightly he touched the clock. Apart from the noise, it felt alive, the tiny vibrations clicking off time against his palms. He jumped when it chimed, and grinned. A quarter past four! The clock had been a wedding gift, but Finch couldn’t remember from whom. Diana would have.

  Everything was in its place. The face screens had been embroidered by his mother. The fender, fire-dogs and sparks screen were in place around the empty grate. He’d wished that he and Diana had had children together; it would have settled her down, and he’d like to have had a daughter to remember her by.

  You’re not too old to marry again and produce children.

  ‘But who would want a blind man,’ he murmured.

  Diana had been young when they’d married . . . like Sara Finn. He’d been seven years older, too old for her in his mind. She hadn’t wanted children, and as a result their personal relationship had been unsatisfactory.

  He had worked his way round the room. Now he had nothing to do but sit in his chair again, enjoying the sun’s warmth against his skin as he inhaled the scents coming from the profusion of wild flowers growing in the overgrown garden outside the house – once neatly trimmed grass and flower beds.

  ‘At least my efficient new housekeeper hasn’t changed that,’ he murmured, wishing that she were older, and therefore more sensible. He didn’t like change, and she was bound to forget he was blind and put obstacles in his path. Her youth alone would rearrange the quietness of his home. Already her scrubbing brush had intruded into it, scrubbing away last week’s dirt, or was it last month’s . . . or even last year’s? Boredom would eventually move her on to remove the memories from someone else’s past. He should get rid of her now, before she settled in – send her packing.

  He remembered the house she yearned for with its two bedrooms. What a pathetic ambition for a girl with a splendid name like Serafina. But it was everything to the girl, and she was prepared to work and save for it. What right had he to prevent that by dismissing her, and just because she was young?

  There was a breathy, snoring sound near his feet. He patted his knee and the cat sprang up to settle in his lap. ‘Hello, Fingal. It didn’t take you long to find me.’ His fingers went under the cat’s chin with a gentle caress and Fingal’s purr increased in volume.

  There came a clatter of feet from the depths of the house, and Maggie’s shrill voice. ‘Here puss . . . where the devil has that dratted cat got to? He should be wearing his collar.’

  Sara whispering. ‘I’ll find him, Maggie.’

  ‘Hear that, Fingal? You should be wearing your bells,’ Finch whispered.

  The cat offered him a dubious meow.

  He heard Sara’s footsteps lightly pattering over the tiled floor of the hallway. She was making kissing sounds in a quiet way to entice the cat to her.

  ‘Fingal’s in here,’ he said.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you . . . he escaped from the kitchen before Maggie got his collar on.’

  He held out a hand. ‘Give it to me, I’ll do it.’

  He misjudged, and took her hand with it. He noticed that her fingers were callused, and as she tried to withdraw her fingers he tightened his around them and said, ‘Stop wriggling.’ He turned her hand palm up then ran a fingertip over them. ‘Did you get these at the workhouse?’

  ‘Mostly. It was picking the tar from the oakum that did the damage.’

  He gave a faint smile. ‘You bite your nails.’

  The tension in her hand increased. He remembered that she’d slapped the reverend’s son for taking liberties. He released the pressure in his fingers in case she read more into the gesture than he’d intended. Her hand recoiled instantly in a sudden jingle of cat bells.

  Fingal sprang from his lap in the direction of the open window, remembering no doubt that the cat bells warned the birds and mice of his presence.

  ‘Damned sneaky cat!’ she said with some exasperation. ‘I’ll have to go after him. In the meantime you’ll have to keep a look out for him, sir.’

  ‘I will,’ he said, and he chuckled. ‘Off you go then, Sara.’

  Instead of going towards the door her feet pattered towards t
he window. Her skirt brushed his knee and she momentarily blocked off the sun’s warmth on his face before she followed the cat over the sill. She must have realized what she’d said because when she was outside the window she whispered to herself, ‘You fool, Sara, what will he think?’

  Finch thought that the word fool didn’t come into the equation. He thought Sara was a hard-working girl who deserved something better than life had given her, and he could do something about her withheld wages to start with. At least that would contribute towards housing her in her old age. He chuckled at the thought of a young girl planning for her future as an ageing spinster, then laughed out loud that she’d leaped out of the window after the cat. It appealed to his sense of humour.

  Mindful that Fingal was on the loose and would sneak back in and attack his ankles on the slightest whim, Finch climbed the stairs cautiously. ‘Oscar. I need you to write a letter for me. Take it down in pencil first, so I can attend to your spelling.’

  There was a rustle of paper and the sound of a pencil being sharpened.

  ‘To whom shall I address it, sir?’

  ‘The right reverend, the Lord Bishop of—’

  ‘You’re writing to the Bishop?’

  ‘Don’t sound so surprised. He is a relative, after all.’

  ‘No, sir. I mean, yes, sir. It’s just that we don’t often write to him.’

  ‘That’s because my secretary usually does it for me. Do get on with it, Oscar, else we’ll be here all day.’

  Finch waited until the scratch of Oscar’s pencil paused, then said, ‘My Lord, esteemed uncle, there is a matter I wish to pursue which concerns one of my house staff, Sara Finn . . .’

  Oscar said, ‘How do you spell pursue, sir? Is it an e or a u?’

  Finch sighed. The letter was going to take a long time.

  Three

  London

  The premises were situated not far from the precincts of the Temple.

  Adam Chapman. Private Detection Agency. The gold lettering stood out against its dark-green background of fresh paint over the door. It announced Adam’s profession with authority as well as discretion.