Free Sword and Song by Roz Southey Page A

or two other ladies wandered in and out, then Mrs Alyson came in alone. She was a remarkably beautiful woman, still with the freshness of youth but with an edge
of weariness. Her dress was of the finest material, with intricate embroidery and lace that must have been worth a fortune. Jewels glittered in her ears and round her throat.
    She was restless, sitting down, standing up again, picking up a book, glancing inside, putting it down again, careful to line it up with the edge of the table. She walked to the fireplace,
glanced down at the huge bowl of flowers set in the grate, bent to finger one of them. She seemed tense, unapproachable. I thought that the position of mistress must be damnably insecure –
she must know how the ladies and gentlemen would react if they knew her real relationship with Alyson.
    But he seemed so in love with her – why the devil did he not just marry her? Of course, Hugh often said the same of myself and Esther. How could I know the imperatives that governed their
lives? I felt a surge of sympathy.
    It lasted only a moment. “Mr Patterson,” Mrs Alyson said loudly.
    I’d been about to play the first chord of a new song, and caught myself just in time. “Madam?”
    “I heard there was an unpleasant incident last night.”
    I had of course risen to address her; I bowed. “Indeed.”
    “I trust such a thing will not happen again.”
    This seemed in the nature of an order, as if I was to blame for the whole affair. She was staring at the huge portrait that hung over the fireplace, a picture of a slightly amused elderly
gentleman. “I am aware you have ‘low’ connections, Mr Patterson. Perhaps that is hardly surprising. I made it perfectly clear to Alyson that I wanted no tradesmen here but he
chose otherwise. Very well, I submit to his judgement. But you will oblige me by not bringing your cronies or their affairs into this house. Do you understand me, sir?”
    I was speechless.
    “I trust I make myself clear,” she said, and walked out.
    Just before dinner, while I was still fuming over Mrs Alyson’s rudeness (and her curt dismissal of my friends), I received another letter from Hugh.
    Things go from bad to worse, he had written . Bedwalters still refuses to budge and is now saying he intends to live there permanently. He’s offered Mrs McDonald twice the
     rent she asked, so she merely shrugs her shoulders and says: Why not? She says it will be useful to her to have a man living on the premises – he can deal with any customers who make
     trouble. But Mrs Bedwalters has gone to the parish officers to demand they dismiss her husband from his post as constable. The chaplain went down to talk to him and is now saying he’s
     mad. They’ve done nothing yet, but I fear he’ll be dismissed the moment they can have a meeting. For God’s sake, Charles why have you not replied to my first letter? Come back
     and talk some sense into everyone!
    I stared at this missive in bewilderment. Why did he say I’d not replied? He should have got my letter hours ago – late last night.
    I went in search of the servant to whom I’d entrusted my letter to Hugh. He was nowhere to be seen. The footman on duty in the hall was six and a half feet tall, as handsome as any girl
could wish, and remarkably simple. After explaining my problem to him three times, I began to suspect his simplicity might be deliberate.
    Fortunately, just as I was having difficulty containing my annoyance, the butler arrived. He dismissed the footman with a nod and enquired with extreme politeness how he might help me. I would
have been more mollified if I hadn’t seen the footman go off with a huge grin.
    I gritted my teeth in an effort to be civil. “Crompton, is it not?”
    He was a few inches taller than myself, a man in his late forties, with a well-muscled body under the fine cloth of his livery. His wig was neat and well-kept. “Indeed, sir.”
    “I gave a servant a note to send off for me yesterday and it