Free Witch Finder by Unknown Page A

L—’ he stumbled, and bit his lip. Dammit. The very first thing to come from his lips, and he’d nearly slipped up already. ‘Luke Welling. Fred Welling’s cousin. I’ve come to look after the horses.’
    ‘Hmm.’ The man at the top of the steps looked down his nose. ‘I’m Mr James, the butler. You’ll be reporting to me.’
    Luke said nothing, but nodded, and shifted his heavy carpet-bag from one hand to another. It felt like it had absorbed several pints of rainwater on the walk across London.
    It had been a long walk, from Spitalfields to Knightsbridge, through the City, along Fleet Street, buzzing with newspaper men, a cut through Covent Garden, full of the debris of the morning market, and then Piccadilly, flash as you like, full of swells and nobs admiring the windows full of fancy fabric and furniture, books and hats – anything you could think of, London could sell you, from gutter pickings to the finest French wines.
    And then, at last, Knightsbridge, tucked beneath the green jewel of Hyde Park, a great white oasis of pristine houses so tall and fine, and so different from the grey, crumbling, sooty slums of Spitalfields that he could hardly bear to look at them. Even the rain had stopped as he came into Osborne Crescent, as if this part of London even had different skies.
    ‘Cat got your tongue?’ Mr James snorted. ‘What kind of manners did they teach you in Spitalfields? “Yes, Mr James”, is what you’ll reply when you’re told something.’
    ‘Yes, Mr James.’
    ‘You’ll sleep over the stable at the back of the house and take your meals in the kitchen. You go round by the mews, horses or not. Do not under any circumstances use the front door – it’s the back entrance only for you, understood? Muddy boots get left at the kitchen door, and you’ll be expected to wash at the pump before you come in from the yard. Mrs Ramsbottom won’t take kindly to horse muck being traipsed over her clean tiles. Dinner is in one hour.’
    Luke nodded and then, recollecting himself, said ‘Yes, Mr James.’ He eased the carpet-bag back into his other hand, wishing he could set it down, but something told him putting his wet bag on the whitewashed steps would be badly received.
    Mr James nodded stiffly, then he looked Luke up and down, taking in his rain-soaked boots and clothes.
    ‘You walked from Spitalfields?’
    ‘Yes. I mean, yes, Mr James.’
    ‘Hmph.’ He seemed to soften slightly. ‘Well, you’ll be glad of dinner, I dare say. I’ll call Becky to show you to your quarters.’
    ‘There’s no gas to the stable block.’ Becky’s voice floated ahead as Luke trudged wearily after her and up the stairs above the stable and carriage house. ‘So it’s candles. And you’ve not to waste them. Mrs Ramsbottom will count ’em, and if you go over more than what’s reasonable she’ll tell Mr James to dock it from your wages.’
    ‘What’s reasonable?’ Luke asked.
    Becky shrugged.
    ‘That depends. She had a soft spot for Fred. He got away with murder.’
    She’d have a hard time docking his wages anyway, Luke reflected, as Becky opened the door to the little room above the stable block. It was small and low ceilinged, barely more than a whitewashed attic, but it looked clean.
    ‘The servants’ lavvy is by the back door. You’ll have to wash at the pump in the yard, but Fred used to beg Mrs Ramsbottom for a can of hot water in winter. Pick your moment though. The bed’s clean; I changed the sheets myself. I can’t speak for the rest – he wasn’t exactly a model housekeeper, your cousin.’
    ‘Thanks.’ Luke let his carpet-bag slip to the floor with a squelching thud. Becky looked at him appraisingly from under her lashes as he peeled off his coat, taking him in from his travel-stained boots to his rain-drenched hair. His shirt was so wet it was plastered to his chest.
    ‘Your afternoon off’s Wednesday.’ She twined a curl of sandy hair around her finger, where it had escaped