Emma began to busy herself around the Queen Anne tea table, concealing her feelings behind a show of efficiency, her composure restored to its usual quiet containment, her face so inscrutable it was like pale stone. But as she poured the tea, buttered the toast, and served the eggs, Emma kept seeing Polly’s pathetically dwindled face and her dark eyes burning feverishly in their hollow sockets and her heart lurched with a terrible sadness, and the pity she had felt for Adele only a short while before was diluted.
‘Eat this afore it gets cold, Mrs Fairley,’ said Emma stonily.
Adele looked up at Emma with her silvery eyes and smiled her deliquescent smile, that melting smile that lighted up her face, and it was as if the conversation about Polly had never taken place at all. Tranquillity dwelt in her face and her eyes were clear and comprehending.
‘Thank you, Emma. I am a little hungry. And I must say, you do take good care of me.’ She sipped the tea and went on chattily, ‘How is your mother, Emma? Is she still improving in health?’
So sudden and incredible was the change in Adele that Emma stared at her in puzzlement. And then she said quickly, ‘Yes, ma’am, thank yer. She’s not half as badly as she was, being as the weather’s improved, and it’s easier on me dad now that he’s working down at yon mill.’
Adele inclined her head. ‘The eggs are good, Emma,’ she said, finishing a forkful.
Emma understood that the brief moment of friendly discourse was over and she reached into her pocket and fished around for the menu for dinner, which Cook had given to her. Although Adele had long ago relinquished her control of the household affairs to Murgatroyd, and more recently to her sister, Cook persisted in sending up the menus daily for her approval. Mrs Turner had worked for Adele since she had come to Fairley as Adam’s bride and she was always deferential to Adele, and would brook no interference with this ritual of the menus, and made no bones about the fact that, to her way of thinking, Mrs Fairley was still the mistress of Fairley Hall, and nobody else. And so she treated her as such and with the utmost consideration and respect. It never occurred to the loyal Mrs Turner that Adele paid little attention to the menus, nor did it seem to disturb her that no comment, favourable or otherwise, was ever forthcoming.
Emma pulled the menu from her pocket and held it out to Adele. ‘Cook says will yer please look over this here menu for dinner, Mrs Fairley,’ she said.
Adele made a little moue and laughed lightly. ‘I can’t be bothered with that this morning, Emma. You know very well I trust Mrs Hardcastle to plan suitable menus and she always does. I am quite sure today is no exception.’
Emma shifted on her feet nervously, the paper fluttering in her hand. She gave Adele a curious look. What’s wrong with Mrs Fairley? she asked herself, her heart pounding unreasonably. She’s worse this morning than she’s ever been. Emma bit her lip, as a most disturbing thought struck her. Was Mrs Fairley touched? It had not occurred to her before that the rich could be daft in the head. She had always thought that such a terrible affliction was the prerogative of the poor, but perhaps she was wrong. And Mrs Fairley was acting so peculiar it was enough to make anybody wonder. First she had forgotten Polly was dead, and now she was talking about Mrs Hardcastle as if she didn’t know she had been relieved of her duties as housekeeper weeks ago.
Emma hesitated, uncertain how to respond. Mrs Fairley might be offended if she kept referring to her forgetfulness. So she said slowly, choosing her words with care, ‘Didn’t I tell yer afore, Mrs Fairley, that Mrs Hardcastle left? It must’ve slipped me mind. It was when yer were badly in bed. Mrs Wainright gave her the sack. She said Mrs Hardcastle had a bad habit of tekking a holiday when it wasn’t no holiday.’
Adele stared down at the breakfast tray. Of course! Olivia had sent Hardcastle packing in a flurry of disfavour. Olivia had stood here in this very room and told her she had let Hardcastle go. She had been infuriated at her sister’s presumption, but she had been unable to countermand her orders. She had been too ill, and anyway Adam had backed Olivia to the hilt and it would have been useless to oppose them. Now she must watch herself. Pay more attention to the things she said, even to Emma, otherwise the girl might become suspicious of her, just as Olivia and Adam were suspicious. Yes, she must be more careful. She lifted her head and smiled warmly, her face a picture of innocence.
There was a clever and deadly cunning in Adele. She had the uncanny ability to dissimulate, and to disguise her bizarre foibles when she so chose, slipping easily behind a façade that simulated rationality, and her behaviour at times could appear very normal, as it did now.
‘Perhaps you told me, Emma. I know Mrs Wainright mentioned it. But I was very sick and so worried about Master Edwin at the time, and it obviously did not register. Well, let us not worry about that now. And let me see the menu.’ She held out her hand and took the paper. She gave it only a cursory glance, as always, and handed it back to Emma.
‘Excellent! A repast for royalty, I would say,’ declared Adele smilingly. And for once, she added, ‘Give Cook my compliments and tell her she has outdone herself, Emma.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Emma, replacing the menu in her pocket, tactfully not bothering to point out that it was not Cook who had planned the menu but Olivia Wainright. ‘Here’s the Gazette, Mrs Fairley,’ Emma went on, passing the newspaper to her mistress. ‘I’ll go and do the bedroom now,’ she finished, bobbing a small curtsy.
‘Thank you, Emma. And when you have finished you can draw my bath, so that I can bathe and dress after breakfast.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Emma said, and hurried into the bedroom.
Emma stifled a cry of amazement when she entered the room and saw the clothes Adele had pulled out of the wardrobe strewn all over the floor in chaotic heaps. She clamped her hand over her mouth, horror-struck, and stood perfectly still, glaring at the dresses and gowns and robes and other beautiful garments lying in tangled disarray. Whatever’s got in ter her? she muttered under her breath, gaping at the clothes incredulously, and then added inwardly: She might not be touched, but she’s acting as daft as a brush, she is that! As she stepped carefully around the clothes, a feeling of anger mingled with acute frustration made a tight knot in Emma’s stomach. She realized furiously it would take her some time to bring order to the clothes and return them to the wardrobe and their former neatness. Her timetable would really be ruined now! Methodically she began picking them up, slipping each garment on to a coat hanger and placing it in the wardrobe, working with efficiency and her usual swiftness, in a concentrated effort to save as much of her precious time as possible.
Meanwhile, Adele continued to peck at her breakfast delicately and after a few mouthfuls she pushed the plate away, feeling revolted by the food. She shook her head violently from side to side, as if to clear it of cobwebs. As she did, she told herself she must try to be more alert and cease her perpetual daydreaming; otherwise she would never reinstate herself as mistress of the house. She would ring for Murgatroyd later, who at least recognized her authority, and order him to bring her the whisky.
There was a sharp knock on the door and it was flung open with a certain abruptness. Engrossed as she was in her musings about the butler, Adele half expected to see Murgatroyd standing there, and she opened her eyes, sat up smartly, and turned to the door, smiling her melting smile, ready to greet the butler. She was therefore astonished to meet the cool and contemplative gaze of her husband. The smile congealed and she froze in the chair. He rarely came to her room.
Adam noticed her fearful reaction and, although it dismayed him, he wisely disregarded it.
‘Good morning, Adele. I trust you slept well,’ he said.
Adele looked at him carefully, filled with antagonism and