She teaches the girls cookery and needlework, flower pressing, composition, deportment and grammar. Whatever she can think of that might benefit them, she tries to fit in some tuition upon it. And even though most of them are poor, and will end up married young and mothers themselves, ruining their bodies in the fields or going into service at one of the big estates nearby, Hester still likes to think that knowing a poem is never a wasted thing, and can bring comfort to the roughest of souls. She normally comes away from the lessons with a renewed energy for life, her mood elevated and spirits high. But not this time. Some vague sense of worry dogs her steps, as though she has mislaid something important. Her mind replays the recent weeks, retracing its steps, trying without success to find where exactly this crucial thing has been lost.
An unusual noise makes Hester look up, and she realises that Sophie Bell, standing over Cat at the wash tub, is laughing. Hester pauses, and realises that this is the first time she has ever heard her housekeeper laugh out loud. She smiles a little as she approaches the pair of them, but when they see her, the laughter stops abruptly. Cat continues to scrub and Sophie Bell looks away in such a guilty manner that Hester is left with the distinct impression that she has been the butt of the joke. To her dismay, unexpected tears fill her eyes, and she blinks hurriedly, smiling to conceal them.
‘Good morning, ladies. I trust you’re both well?’ she says. Both Cat and Mrs Bell nod and murmur their assent. ‘I called in on Mrs Trigg on my way back from school, Mrs Bell. She asked after you.’
‘Oh, well. And how is she? Any better?’ Sophie asks.
‘Not a great deal, I fear. She’s still keeping to her bed. I know she would dearly love to have more visitors,’ Hester says.
Mrs Bell nods sharply, her chins rippling. ‘I’ll make sure I drop by to see her soon, madam,’ she says. Hester glances down at the wash tub and sees the stains Cat is working on, the soap suds drying into a scummy ring around her elbows. Perhaps this is why they’d been laughing at her? Again, Hester feels her eyes stinging, and she looks away, ready to walk past them towards the front of the house.
Just then, there’s a crash from inside the house; scraping sounds and a loud thump. All three women look quickly at one another. Hester edges past Sophie Bell, who needs more time to turn, and is the first one through the back door. Leading off the corridor, before it opens into the kitchen, is the door to the cold store. This is a small room built with three outside walls. It is dug a little deeper into the ground, with three steps leading down into it, and is stone floored, with shelves of solid slate slab that stay cooler for longer, even in hot weather. The only light comes from a tiny window, not six inches square, set high in the far wall opposite the door. There is no glass in the window, just wire mesh to keep out insects and vermin. It has the feel of a compact cave, which is the aim of its design. All meats and cheese, milk, cream and fruit – anything that will spoil in a warm room – finds a longer life on the cool slate shelves, or hanging from savage-looking hooks in the ceiling. Robin Durrant is leaning against the wall outside the cold store as Hester hurries towards it.
The source of the crash is immediately apparent. Smashed shards of a china basin sit in a puddle of white mess on the floor of the corridor.
‘What has happened? That was the batter for the sausage puddings!’ exclaims Mrs Bell, who has waddled along behind her mistress. Hester glances at Robin Durrant, who looks serious for once, and then into the little room, where Albert is filling his arms with foodstuffs.
‘Albert? What on earth is going on?’ she asks him.
‘All of this stuff must be cleared out, Hetty. Robin has need of this room,’ Albert says, quite cheerfully.
‘But… this is the cold store, Mr Durrant. What possible use could it be to you?’ Hester asks.
‘Very considerable use, my dear Mrs Canning. I have decided to develop my own photographs, you see. My equipment was delivered to me this morning… The local laboratories have insufficient skill for work of such a precise nature as I am undertaking; and anyway they take far too long to return my prints to me,’ Robin says. He stands up from the wall and links his hands behind his back, making no move to assist Albert in his labours. ‘I do apologise about the batter, Mrs Bell.’ The theosophist smiles at the simmering housekeeper.
‘But… I don’t understand,’ Hester says. ‘This is where we keep fresh food cold… what has it to do with your photographs?’ she asks.
‘Excuse me, dear,’ Albert says, squeezing past them and towards the kitchen with arms laden with bacon and cheese.
‘I need a dark room, Mrs Canning. A room where absolutely all light can be excluded, so that I may safely develop my prints. This room, with only a tiny window and such a good solid door, is perfect.’
‘It’s quite impossible, Reverend. In this weather! Nothing will last from one hour till the next, if I haven’t a cold store for it! Perhaps we might do without it in winter, or even spring… but now? No, no – it will not do…’ Mrs Bell protests.
‘Nevertheless, Mrs Bell, this is the perfect – nay, the only – place that will do for it. Mr Durrant’s needs are quite specific,’ says the vicar, his voice steady and his expression adamant.
‘And can he be specific about how I should manage without it?’ the housekeeper snaps, much to Robin Durrant’s apparent delight.
‘That’s enough, thank you, Mrs Bell,’ Hester says, as soothingly as she can. With a black look on her face, the housekeeper disappears into the kitchen. Hester finds her pulse racing, and an odd rushing sound fills her ears. ‘Albert,’ she says, trying to get her husband’s attention as he returns to the store and begins to pile up bowls of fruit and vegetables. ‘Albert!’ She lowers her voice, aiming to speak only to him. ‘There must be some other place we can install Mr Durrant’s equipment! This is hardly appropriate – for one thing, it is below stairs, and Mrs Bell is quite right to resent the intrusion into her domain. And for another, in this hot weather it is madness to lose the use of this room for food! I do wish you had consulted with me about this beforehand… I could have pointed out earlier that this is really not the answer-’
‘But it is, Hetty. Robin has searched all over the house, and this is the only place one might sensibly set up a dark room,’ Albert insists.
‘Well… what about one of the outbuildings? The old woodshed has no windows at all – surely we could arrange some worktops of some kind in there for him?’
‘The old woodshed? It’s full of dust and spiders, Hester! Don’t be so ridiculous! How can Robin be expected to produce something as fragile and important as a photograph of an elemental when he is surrounded by crumbling plaster and sawdust? Really – you must desist with this obstruction!’
‘But… but you shouldn’t even be down here!’ Hester whispers, unhappily. Two firsts in the space of five minutes, she thinks – Sophie Bell laughing, and Albert below stairs, within the female realm of the kitchen and utility areas.
‘Excuse me,’ Albert says again, passing her with the load of fruit and vegetables. Hester turns to watch him go, and catches the eye of the theosophist, still dallying in the corridor. She can’t hold his gaze, and drops her eyes, filling with ill-defined outrage.
‘I am sorry to be such a nuisance,’ Robin says, not sounding sorry at all. Hester squeezes her teeth together and manages the briefest of smiles before walking past him after her husband. She cannot find it in her to accept his apology.
‘I’m quite sure you will manage, Mrs Bell. You are a woman of great resource,’ Albert says to the housekeeper, uncomfortably, as Hester catches up with him.
‘Just the milk, then, Reverend? It can’t hurt to let me keep the milk in there – it won’t take up much room…’
‘No, I’m afraid that’s quite out of the question. The risk of contamination is too great. There. I apologise if you are inconvenienced, Mrs Bell, but the needs of our guest must take precedence in this instance. Our work is of the utmost importance. I would be grateful if you could bring out the rest of the food, and let us hear no more about it,’ the vicar says, and walks away up the stairs.
‘Madam, can’t you talk to him? Everything will spoil!’ Sophie appeals to Hester once Albert is out of earshot.
Oddly short of breath, Hester can only shake her head helplessly. ‘I’m sorry, Sophie. Please just… do the best you can,’ she says. She glances back along the corridor but Robin Durrant has gone out into the courtyard, leaving the cold store half empty and the spilt batter on the floor, attracting flies. Seconds later, Cat appears, drying her hands on her apron with a look of outrage on her face.
‘The theosophist just sent me in to clear up his bloody mess, if you please,’ she snaps, recoiling slightly when she sees that Hester is still in the room. ‘Begging your pardon, madam,’ she mutters.
‘No, that’s quite all right, Cat. If you wouldn’t mind, please do see to it,’ Hester says meekly, and flees the anger of the two women. At the top of the stairs she pauses, suddenly quite at a loss as to where to go or what to do next. It seems as though the house has changed somehow, as though somebody has been in during her absence and shifted all the furniture slightly, so that nothing is quite in its right place. Our work is of the utmost importance. Albert’s words echo in her head. Is this where that important thing has been lost, then? Did it start the day Albert rushed indoors and told her he’d seen elemental beings? She’d hardly believed him serious, at the time. Feeling unsettled and almost afraid, Hester goes into the parlour and sits on the edge of a chair, quite alone.