The Lady of Misrule Read Online Free PDF Page A

no time he’d come to appreciate it, as I’d known he would, because, even if I said so myself, it was a good one. Perfect, no less: we Tilneysweren’t the most observant of families; none of us was ever in chapel unless we had to be. That alcove, behind its own door, was the quietest corner of Shelley Place’s quietest room. No one was permitted anywhere near, however laudable the intention, except for my father, who wound the mechanism every morning, and the clockmaker, Mr Farebrother, on his infrequent and well heralded visits. Otherwise, my father decreed, there was to be no cleaning or polishing, no sweeping or tidying, no coaxing, tinkering, easing or tightening; none of the meddling and ministrations to which everything else in the household, living or inanimate, was subject. That clock was my father’s pride and joy and we were all to leave it well alone, to let it get on with its work.
    I didn’t find it hard to shut myself away inside that bell chute because no one was ever looking for me. I’d grown up trailing in everyone else’s footsteps; it was second nature for me to drop back and slip from view. And so it had been paying off, lately, at last, the benign neglect with which I’d been brought up, as perhaps I’d always had an inkling it would do.
    Harry, though, was impossible to miss. Ordinary enough in his looks – forties, portly and mousey, although the smile was certainly something, the glee in it – he was none the less a presence, always at the centre of everything, even of our household, to which he didn’t even belong. ‘Like family’, my father always said of his boyhood best friend. And more like family, perhaps, than our actual rather sorry excuse for afamily, although in his company we did rather better because somehow he brought out the best in everyone. How did he do that? Even he himself probably didn’t know, because there was nothing calculated about him. He was a natural, a man’s man who was just as comfortable in the company of women. A big character, literally so in girth if not in height, although of course, back when I was younger, he’d towered over me. And now, if he was past his prime – still wearing it, but outgrown it – at least he’d had one.
    He was unmissable, but more than that, he was a guest, so how did he contrive to disappear into his host’s chapel’s clock cupboard? He couldn’t even pretend to want to go to our chapel, reformist as he was. No genuflecting, for him, in front of our secret St Sunday.
    I never saw how he managed to slip away because I was always already there, ahead of him, waiting, shoulder to shoulder with that skeletal clock-mechanism, its bared teeth. He probably did it in plain sight: to my parents, a breezy I’ll see myself out , and then, in the courtyard, no word at all to his own men, just that good-natured shrug, and then off, who knew where or why. Because who was going to ask? Servants don’t ask. Or perhaps he’d even have mounted his horse, he’d be taking leave of my parents but Oh !, a sudden recollection of some task that needed doing and then, mindful of their comfort, You go hack inside, keep warm, don’t mind me, I can look after myself and they’d assume he had business to do with our cellarer, or perhaps our stablemaster or warrener, because there was always business to be done between ourneighbouring households. And anyway, he was family, as good as. Your home is my home.
    Sometimes, I imagined, he’d have said nothing at all but just walked away, a hand raised in his wake, a half-wave, as brazen as that, just because he could. Harry could get away with anything. No one ever doubted him. No one ever thought anything but the best of him, because he always did his best for everyone.
    When he opened the alcove door, it didn’t matter how he’d got there; all that mattered was fitting him inside there with me.