She knew every inch of this town. Leeds had always been the background to her life, easy to ignore as she kept her attention on Fox. He crossed the Head Row, following the streets behind St John’s Church and its alms houses, finally finding a place out of sight that offered a good view of Barton’s house.

  It was simple to settle in a hollow between the tree roots where she could keep her eyes on him. Nobody had built on this ground yet. Soon enough that would change. People arrived in Leeds every day, all of them desperate for somewhere to live, lured by the blind promise of a fortune.

  As she sat, Jane thought about the man watching the house. Why had he taken such a twisting way here? She’d swear he had no idea she was following him. Perhaps it was some cautious habit. She couldn’t look inside his head; there had to be a reason she didn’t understand. After a while, her mind strayed to the men who’d tormented the homeless children. The house where one of them lived stood in front of her. She hoped he’d learned, and that was an end to it for him. She’d have no need to mention it to Simon. But deep inside, she had her doubts. A gnawing in her belly said it wasn’t over yet.

  Then the screaming girl from the factory came back to her, a waking dream that made her cringe. The sound raced through her skull, as real as if she was hearing it all over again. She had to close her eyes and shake her head to force it away.

  Jane was grateful when the parish church struck the hour and cut off her thoughts. The front door opened and Barton came out, striding briskly away. She was ready when Fox left. He paused by a tree and slipped something into a hole in the trunk.

  Very odd. Making sure he couldn’t see her, she pulled it out. A slip of paper with one thing on it: the number three scribbled in pencil. What did it mean? A time? A meeting? Who was meant to see it?

  For a moment, she wondered if she should wait and see who collected it. No. Her job was to follow Fox and keep Barton safe.

  EIGHT

  Sally pulled on the reins and the horse stopped. He watched as she stared open-mouthed at the house in the distance, unable to find words for it. It had risen in front of them as they topped the hill. A U-shaped building with red brick that seemed to glow in the sunlight, stately and magnificent, overlooking acres and acres of carefully landscaped grounds. A view to steal the breath away.

  ‘Do you know what it’s like inside?’ she asked finally.

  ‘No.’ Simon had never seen how people with titles and the real riches lived. He stared; like her, he was drinking it all in. This was beyond his imagination. How could anyone find the words to describe it? An advertisement of wealth and power that hit him in a way he couldn’t have anticipated. Not envy, but … awe. ‘We’d better move,’ he said after a long while.

  ‘Will they let us in?’ she asked doubtfully, looking down at her dress and heavy boots.

  He smiled. ‘We’ll be talking to the servants. The people who own this probably aren’t here.’

  She kept the horse at a sedate pace, glancing at the roll of the hills. A shepherd was counting a flock of sheep, calling out as he moved among them: ‘Yan, tan, tethera, methera, pip,’ and more and he walked among the animals. Simon saw the girl smile.

  ‘What’s he doing?’

  ‘That was how we count in the country. I don’t think I’ve heard it since I came to Leeds.’ She blinked. ‘It made me remember. Look over there.’

  She pointed off into the distant sky, picking out the red kites, the kestrels and buzzards over the woods. Something to change the subject. But her eyes always returned to the house.

  ‘There are letters at the top of it,’ she said in astonishment. ‘What do they say?’

  George Mudie had told him. He hadn’t understood, but now the words in white-painted stone seemed to make a curious kind of sense.

  ‘“All glory and praise be given to God the father the son and the holy ghost on high peace on earth goodwill towards men honour and true allegiance to our gracious king loving affection among his subjects health and plenty be within this house,”’ he recited.

  Those things would certainly be plentiful inside those walls, he thought.

  ‘All those words?’ She sounded doubtful.

  ‘Yes. It’s their motto.’ Sally turned her head quizzically. ‘Words they’re supposed to live by,’ he explained.

  A gardener directed them to the proper entrance. The rear of the house, where no carriages or gentry were likely to spot them. When he stepped down, his leg was stiff, a sharp, angry pain with each step.

  A few questions and a footman wearing a dark apron over his livery was leading him with quiet grace towards the butler’s pantry.

  ‘Talk to the maids and kitchen girls,’ he told Sally. She nodded as she looked around, completely overwhelmed by the scale of things. She’d soon discover the truth as she met girls her age who spent their days sweating near the ovens and endlessly cleaning the house. Drudges.

  Mr Dawson, the butler, was a man defined by his dignity, one who’d worked his way up to his position. Soberly dressed in a dark jacket and trousers, black shoes polished to a high gloss, his shirt and stock immaculate and white, he stood and listened to Simon, eyes slowly narrowing. For a long minute he remained silent.

  ‘You need to talk to Mr Holroyd,’ he decided. ‘He’s the estate clerk, been here for years. If anyone here would know about any family called Fox, it would probably be him.’

  He rang a bell and another footman quickly appeared, escorting him along the passages and up a back stair that kept them out of sight of the grand rooms.

  The office was neat, with tall bundles of papers carefully stacked and tied. The man behind the desk looked to be well into his sixties, with thin white hair, a pale, genial face and kindly blue eyes behind a pair of thick spectacles. The light from the window fell on the desk where he was working. Out beyond, the ground rolled away for miles.

  ‘Over my time here I’ve had dealings with many families related in some way to the Marchioness,’ he replied with a wan smile when Simon had finished. He didn’t need to consult any old books; very likely the entire history of Temple Newsam rested in his head. He’d know the grounds, the buildings, the people, better than the owners. It had probably been his life since he was a boy. ‘Others who claimed to be, too. I can assure you that none of them was named Fox from anywhere near Richmond.’ He spoke with an odd, stilted formality. ‘I’m sorry, you appear to have had a wasted journey.’

  ‘Believe me, it’s been worthwhile to learn that,’ Simon told him. ‘At least I know there’s no connection.’ He stood. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It’s nothing.’ He dismissed it with a small wave. ‘A boy will show you the way out.’

  The silence of the house came as a surprise. So many servants moving around, working, but never talking. No chattering or gossip to help pass the time. It was like being inside a tomb. Everything was communicated with gestures and looks. Sometimes a hurried whisper, as if they daren’t risk disturbing the owners.

  Sally was waiting by the cart, wearing an expression he couldn’t read.

  ‘What did you make of it?’ Simon asked. He walked in small circles, trying to ease his leg before the trip back.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ she replied. ‘But none of it seems real, does it? A house like this … look at the grounds …’ She frowned with frustration. ‘I can’t put it the way I think. It’s like the country, but it’s not the real country. There are sheep, but where’s all the dirt?’

  ‘Money,’ he replied. He climbed back on to the seat and shifted around, trying to find a comfortable spot. ‘This is what it buys you. An illusion. The look without the problems.’

  She nodded, grimacing. ‘Yes, and all those people working away to make your life easier.’ Sally twitched the reins and the cart rolled on. ‘A girl showed me some of it.’ The wonder grew in her voice. ‘Did you know there’s a passage under that courtyard at the front where they carry dishes from the kitchen for the feasts, and hidden stairs so guests don’t have to see the servants.’

  He chuckled. ‘I can easily believe it. I was on a staircase like that. Out of sight.’

  ‘There’s a ghost in the house, too. The girl said she knew someone who’d seen it, it’s a blue lady.’

  He was quiet as she recited the story, wondering if he’d ever heard her speak so much. Everything from ghosts to kitchens, the passages with stone floors that stretched away, and the uniforms the servants had to wear; she’d learned so much in a short time.

  ‘Half of them seem to spend their time in the cellars,’ Sally finished and shook her head. ‘They even eat there. I don’t understand how anyone can do that, with no light and air around them.’

  Not that there was much good air in Leeds, Simon thought as they turned towards town. Out here it was fresh, clean enough to taste. A different world. For a few minutes he’d stepped into it, just long enough to learn what he needed. That was enough. It wasn’t somewhere he could live, not with the deference it demanded.

  ‘Could you be content there?’ he asked.

  Sally set her mouth in a straight line. ‘I don’t think so. Maybe if I hadn’t known anything else.’

  He smiled. Not knowing anything else. Perhaps that was the key to it. Expecting nothing more from life.

  She guided the horse back down the drive, halting at the top of the rise for a final look back. Just like her, Simon would carry this with him for the rest of his life. His eyes caught her face, noticing the way her eyes shone to be out in the country. Sooner or later they’d lose her, he thought. The pull would be too great. Once she was old enough, she’d probably marry a farmer. Maybe create a home for some of those stray children. Growing food and raising animals. It was in her blood.

  The day slithered away from her. Fox trailed Barton around Leeds, always keeping a good distance: too far to threaten, still close enough to worry.

  After the church clock struck two, Fox began pulling out his watch. Finally he left Barton, moving away in a loping walk. Which to follow? It was an easy choice; Fox was the danger. Jane stayed behind him all the way to a warehouse where the river met the start of the Leeds and Liverpool Canal.

  Jane stayed out of sight, a hidden, crouching figure in a shawl. If anyone looked, their eyes would pass over her.

  As the bell in the distance tolled three o’clock, another man appeared and she understood the morning’s note; it was to arrange the meeting. The man who appeared was younger, moving in gawky strides. Well-dressed in a dark coat and a dark waistcoat, pale, tightly fitted trousers and a top hat with a high crown.

  Fox was talking, anger and frustration leaving his face stormy. He gestured and waved, as if they were arguing; Jane was too far away to pick out any words. The other man stood, head bowed and face stern, pushing a few words into the gaps. Finally, after five minutes, they seemed to reach an agreement of some sort and the younger man left, looking around him before he disappeared.

  He never spotted her, but she’d know him when she saw his face again. Fox began to move away, back into the heart of town and she stayed behind him as he returned to Middle Fold.

  Who was the other man? Why the secrecy of the note and meeting out of the way? Yet more questions about the Foxes. Too many. Maybe Rosie had managed to find a few answers about the wife.

  They met at the house on Swinegate.

  ‘She went to buy food, then home and never came out again,’ Rosie said, with a sour smile.

  ‘We learned that Fox has no connection to the Ingrams,’ Simon said, hobbling around the kitchen, trying to smother the pain coursing through him. ‘But with that meeting he’s obviously planning something. How old was this other man?’

  ‘Young. Probably not much more than twenty,’ Jane answered. ‘The way he moved, it was like he hadn’t quite grown into his body yet.’ She thought a moment longer. ‘He was trying to look confident, but Fox seemed to take charge.’

  ‘He shouldn’t be difficult to find.’ Simon leaned against the door jamb. ‘It seems there’s nothing more we can do today.’ He nodded at her. ‘I’d like you and Sally back on the Foxes tomorrow. Whatever they’re planning must be ready to take shape by now.’

  ‘Are they going to come?’ Sally asked. They stood, silhouetted by the small fire, two outlines in the dark.

  ‘Yes.’ All the way here, Jane had felt it. Through the long twilight, she’d sat outside the cottage behind Green Dragon Yard and run a whetstone over her knife while Mrs Shields read. Finally, when night fell, she’d put a thin shawl around her shoulders.

  ‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing?’ the old woman asked in an anxious voice.

  Jane nodded. ‘Sally’s going to need me.’

  Catherine Shields’s gaze lingered, then finally she nodded. ‘Please be careful, child. I don’t want to lose you.’

  ‘I will.’ A smile, a squeeze of the old woman’s hand and a kiss on her head. ‘I promise.’ She meant the words. She’d return, whole and sound.

  Sally had gathered a small group of children around her as she told her tales about Temple Newsam. The dark underground passage where candles had to be hung on the walls and the story of the ghost called the Blue Lady.

  Jane listened as she stared out into the darkness. The stories helped to pass the time as the fire crackled. But they were nothing more than words to fill the waiting, before whatever was gathering. Once the quiet returned, it seemed fuller, stronger than before. Sally wandered around the group, pausing for a kind word here, some encouragement there. Last night had been a lull, a chance to breathe. They all realised something was coming. The real wave would crash over them tonight.

  As she sat by Jane, Sally said, ‘When we were out at that house today, I could taste the clearness in the air. I realised how much I’ve missed that. Everything’s so dirty here. All the smells and the muck. Don’t you ever notice it?’

  How could she? This was what she knew. It was home. She shook her head. She’d seen the way the girl’s eyes sparkled whenever she talked about the countryside. That was the real core of her. Leeds was just a thin layer over the top, a place of constant battles.

  ‘Is everyone ready?’ It was all Jane could think to say. She twisted the gold ring on her finger; they might need the luck tonight.

  ‘They are,’ she replied. They had their stones. Some had gathered branches. She looked at them as if they were her family. In a way, they were. ‘They’ll fight.’

  ‘There—’ Jane stopped, catching something in the distance. ‘It’s them. They’re coming.’

  Six this time. No blundering tonight; they were moving cautiously. Too many for her and Sally to fight alone. The young ones would need to play their part.

  Maybe the men believed they were keeping quiet. They kept their voices low, as if they imagined no sound would carry on the air. She knew where they were, right to the yard, ready when one let out his war cry and they started to charge.

  The children were good, halting them with a barrage of stones. At the very first resistance, two of the men turned tail. Suddenly the numbers were more balanced. The four who remained tried to gather themselves in a ragged line as more stones and branches pelted them. Jane launched herself at the one on the end. He ran as soon as he saw her knife, before she had chance to strike a blow.

  The battle was quickly withering. Barely even a skirmish now. It was rapidly becoming a repeat of the last time.

  Only three left. Sally was fighting furiously against one, her face rigid with fury. From the corner of her eye, Jane saw her start to push him back.

  Then another took a run straight at her, murder in his eyes. Someone had taught him a few basics of knife fighting. How to hold a blade. But not enough to turn him into any kind of warrior. He flinched as she feinted close to his belly, then she slid inside and cut the back of his hand. With a yelp, he dropped his weapon, stared at her in panic for a second before he dashed away.

  Sally was still fighting. That left one more. The children were trying to hold him off, but he was beginning to overwhelm them. He’d already wounded one, a boy who clutched his arm and held back tears.

  Time to end things.

  Jane shouted. He turned towards her. She saw his face and for a second she froze. It was the same man she’d seen talking to Fox that afternoon. Crouching now, ready for her.

  He slashed. Pure instinct made her parry and the jolt that ran through her arm startled her back to her senses. She began to fight. He possessed enough skill to cause her a few doubts. But all too soon she could hear him panting. No stamina, no experience of fights where the outcome was staying alive or dying. The man had scrapes and blood on his face from the stones the children had thrown. Another ten seconds and he had the brains to realise he wasn’t going to win.

  He raised his hands.

  ‘No more,’ she warned him. ‘No coming back. Any of you.’ He agreed with a curt nod before he turned and dashed away.

  Sally’s opponent was limping off into the distance. It was over. They wouldn’t return. One boy had a knife slash on his arm. Not deep; it would heal well. Sally bound it with a strip of cloth one of the girls handed her.

  Nobody dead. No serious injuries. Nothing to attract the constable and the night watch. That was a victory.

  The surge of war began to drain from her body as the two of them walked into town.

  ‘The last one I was fighting …’ Jane began, not sure how to continue.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘I’ve seen him before.’

  Sally stared at her. ‘So have I. When did it happen?’

  ‘He met Fox this afternoon. When—’

  ‘He’s Barton’s son.’