AS Marguerite reached the top of the spiral stairs she paused to take in the magnificent view from the tower window. A dramatic panorama spread out before her eyes: much of the landscape was still a vivid green, but it was smudged with the deep reds and amber hues of the gathering autumn.
She made her way out of the tower doorway tentatively but, finding the breeze had dropped considerably since this morning, she grew bolder and went to the edge of the parapets to look over. The formal gardens of the south terrace looked stunning from this viewpoint and she could have spend much longer in contemplation of them, but she was impatient to find Percy.
Exploring further along the southern section she came across a tiny turret-like room, built out from the side of the house walls. Curiosity drew her closer and she peered through the windows which encircled the round room wondering whatever it could be used for. As she looked she saw that it housed seats and a table of appropriately diminutive proportions, which had been spread with the makings of a delicious-looking picnic.
Remembering Percy's mischievous plans earlier, she smiled and wondered why he was not here waiting for her. Deciding not to sit and wait for him, she set off around the square walkway, admiring the views across the unspoilt countryside.
From here she could see that the house had been built in perfect symmetry from all angles, everything on one side had its exact counterpart on the other: the tiny look-out room must have been a later addition as it did not seem to fit into the design.
Thinking this over, Marguerite felt as though something was out of place. A half-formed thought nagged at her: what about the staircase? Mrs Roberts had only shown her one which reached the roof, and she was sure Percy had only mentioned one set of stairs. But surely if everything else came in pairs, so must they.
Impulsively she made for the far tower to see what was there, and with a small cry of triumph she pounced on the door handle. Forgetting all about the picnic and the view; heedless to all except her discovery she stepped into the half-light of the tower.
The place had obviously not been used for years, there were huge cobwebs and layers of thick, choking dust over everything. It looked as though a few boxes had been dumped here and then the whole place forgotten about. Holding her gown up in an attempt to protect it from the filth, Marguerite craned around the boxes to see whether her hunch had been correct and there were stairs behind them.
Seeing the head of the staircase she was thrilled at her detective-work, but also perplexed: why had no-one mentioned them, and where did they lead to in the house? Making her way gingerly, using the faint light filtering in through grimy windows set high in the walls as a guide, she set forth to find out.
Great, grey stones had always indicated home to him. Wherever in the world he was the sight of solid stonework would turn his thoughts to this place. He had thought himself so familiar with the building and the people, this had always been home: but now returning after so many years he felt almost like a stranger.
He had been given no time to think about it when he had first arrived - there had been so much to arrange, so many details to attend to. But now he had a few moments of leisure these feelings of being a guest surfaced.
He looked around at the stone walls of the room and took in the trappings of the well-equipped chamber; this was just one of the many changes which he found himself experiencing. Before he would never have been invited in here, seated at the highly-polished table and given a glass of Madeira. Not the best vintage in the cellars he knew, but even so, he felt somewhat honoured.
This had always been known as Mr Trent's Room, and it seemed to him that it hadn't changed much over the years. There had been brief visits in the past, to deliver a message or be given an order and Frank remembered the heavy oak furniture well.
The only thing that had definitely changed was the room's occupant. Frank looked at him and took in the comfortable proportions of the waistcoat and touches of grey around the temples, which marked the passing of the years.
He lifted his glass and toasted his old friend on his success, before grinning and saying:
"Jack Cartwright, butler. Who'd have thought it?"
He had known of the appointment being made when old Mr Trent had been pensioned off, but this was the first chance he had had to congratulate Jack in person. He looked a lot more like the Jack he remembered now, relaxing in his shirtsleeves in the privacy of his room. When he had been greeting Sir Percy and Lady Blakeney he had looked every inch the starchy, dignified retainer that Mr Trent had. He wondered if Jack inspired the kind of terror in the younger footmen that Mr Trent used to.
Jack retaliated in kind, feigning disbelief that Frank had managed to stay employed as a valet all these years. The years fell away and they slipped into the bantering camaraderie they had always shared. Neither was over talkative, or particularly demonstrative, but they had been friends for as long as they could remember and didn't need to tell each other how pleased they were with the other's success.
The talk turned to the previous master and mistress and their love of Welbourne. Frank was relieved - Jack's interest in Sir Percy's lifestyle had been tricky to steer through. He did not want to tell deliberate untruths to his friend; but he felt he needed to keep more of a guard on his tongue with Jack than he did with most folk. He had maintained Sir Percy's anonymity in the face of all kinds of questions and had no intentions of blurting out his secret now.
"It's grand to see the old rooftop room being used by the young master," said Jack, with the sublime disregard for Sir Percy's almost 30 years that came from having been with the family since before he was born. "Do you think now he's married he'll spend more time here, like his mother and father did?"
"I doubt it. He's too busy in London - he's always at some gathering. Often with the Prince of Wales."
After some chaffing of his friend for the exalted company he must now be keeping, Jack returned to the subject.
"'Twould be good for the place to have master and mistress back in residence. Sir Algernon and her ladyship loved the Hall. 'Tis quite like old times - they used to spend hours up on the roof - do you remember?"
"I do. And how you used to shirk going up all those stairs given half a chance. I see old habits die hard, especially now you've got younger legs to order about."
Frank accompanied his remark with an expressive gesture at Jack's increased waistline.
Before the two men could continue their old, familiar routine of friendly abuse there was a timid knock at the door, as though whoever was there didn't really want to be heard. Jack called: "Come in," in stentorian accents, and a slip of a girl opened the door a crack and slid in through the narrow aperture before bobbing a nervous curtsey.