Chapter Two
“Across the hall you’ll find the billiards room, and the library next.” Mrs. Morton spoke in a brusque, toneless voice as she marched down the main hallway of Norcliffe House. Rose had to take two steps for every one of the housekeeper’s long, purposeful strides. In the fastest quarter hour of Rose’s life, they’d already seen all the rooms belowstairs—the kitchen, servants’ hall, scullery, and more—and they had moved on to the upper floors.
“Lord Norcliffe’s study.” Mrs. Morton nodded at another door up ahead. Rose barely had the chance to recognize it from the previous day before the housekeeper continued speaking with a frown. “Which you already know.”
Rose gulped. Clearly Mrs. Morton did not appreciate having an inexperienced maid forced upon her. It would be an uphill battle to win her good opinion.
Rose eyed the study door as they passed. Was Lord Norcliffe inside at this moment? She found she had little desire to see him again, even after his unexpected offer of employment. He had certainly earned his infamous reputation. She tore her eyes away and hurried to catch Mrs. Morton.
They continued the tour upstairs, through a maze of hallways that Rose doubted she would ever keep straight. Every door began to look the same, and only her brief glimpses out the wide windows allowed her to keep her bearings. Mrs. Morton shot out words faster than anyone she’d ever met, and Rose’s head throbbed in her attempt to remember everything.
“You’ll rise at four o’clock every morning. Your duties include cleaning and setting the fireplace grates, sweeping all floors daily, dusting and polishing, helping in the kitchen, hauling water, and anything else I assign you.” Mrs. Morton fixed her with a glare. “You will complete all your tasks by the end of the day or I will report your inadequacy to his lordship. Am I understood?”
“Yes, Mrs. Morton,” she said, eager to please. The housekeeper turned away with a scowl.
After turning down another endless hallway, Mrs. Morton came to a halt outside an innocuous door, the same as all the others. She faced Rose with a severe expression.
“As a maid, you are expected to be invisible. Your presence will never be noticed, though you’ll be in every room of the house.” She laid her hand on the doorknob. “Every room except this one.”
Rose glanced at the door again. “What room is that?”
Mrs. Morton’s eyes took on a new solemnity. “It was the bedchamber of the late baroness.”
Rose bit her lip. The sudden deaths of Lord and Lady Norcliffe in a carriage accident had shaken the entire town two years before.
“His lordship insists on privacy in this matter,” Mrs. Morton said. “Only I am allowed inside to clean. You are never to enter this room.”
Rose nodded. That would not be a problem. She had far too much depending on her ability to keep this position.
The tour finished in the attic, where Mrs. Morton showed Rose her sliver of a bedroom, furnished with a bed and tiny wash table.
“Fetch your things from downstairs.” She eyed Rose from head to foot and gave a little scoff. “You’ll have to accustom yourself to the livery. We’ve no use for frilly dresses.”
Rose stared down at her dress as Mrs. Morton left. Frilly? The dark blue muslin was one of her plainer dresses. Heavens, she still had so much to learn. Her energy spent, she sank onto the bed, the iron frame creaking in the silence. She wrapped her arms around herself, clutching her elbows in a fierce effort to control her emotions.
What had she gotten herself into? Though surprised at Lord Norcliffe’s offer yesterday, she hadn’t needed more than a moment to accept the position. Even a post as an undermaid was vastly preferable to the uncertain future that had loomed before her. And in truth, it was a good position, and she had been confident she would be able to manage.
But now … oh, but now she was not so certain. Mrs. Morton had made it all too clear that she would report anything lacking in Rose’s work. And the sheer amount of work! The house was enormous, and Rose would be lucky enough to not lose her way, let alone complete the tasks expected of her.
Rose closed her eyes, forcing back her tears of self-pity. She was lucky to have found this position, lucky to not be on the streets—or even worse, the workhouse. It would be difficult, of that she had no doubt. But she would learn and grow stronger.
Father was depending on her, and she would not let him down.
* * *
Henry did not particularly like his weekly meetings with Frampton and Mrs. Morton. His housekeeper had the tendency to drone on about useless details while his butler barely spoke at all. But in the absence of having a steward, the meetings had become a necessity. As Mrs. Morton spoke from across the desk, something about the rising price of candles, he resolved to double his search for a new steward.
“Would you like to review the menu for the week?” Mrs. Morton asked in that strange, toneless voice of hers.
Henry shook his head. “No, I haven’t the time. As I said last week, I shall leave it to you to decide.”
Mrs. Morton frowned, but nodded. With no lady of the house to confer with, she often attempted to involve him in such inane discussions. He hardly cared if they ate fish or fowl, so long as it was palatable.
Henry decided to cut the meeting short before Mrs. Morton could start into another endless dialogue. “If you have no other concerns, then—”
“I do have another concern,” Mrs. Morton said quickly.
Henry narrowed his eyes at her interruption. She flushed but sat straighter. “Lord Norcliffe,” she amended.
Henry tightened his jaw and looked out his study window, where the summer leaves were twitching in a scant breeze. He exhaled; the sooner he heard her concern, the sooner he might escape outside for a bruising ride. He motioned for her to speak.
“I am worried about the maid you hired, my lord,” she said.
Henry leaned back in his chair. It was as though Mrs. Morton knew how often he’d thought of Miss Sinclair during the past week. It had been utterly foolish of him to hire her. What had he been thinking, mixing a debtor’s daughter into his staff? Especially one with no experience.
“Is her work inadequate?” he asked.
Mrs. Morton frowned. “No, I can’t say that it is, though she is slow. But my main trouble is how she is affecting the other servants.”
Henry’s first thought—an odd, irritating thought—was that the male servants were distracted by Miss Sinclair. He shook that away.
“She acts quite pretentious around the others,” Mrs. Morton went on. “Takes her meals alone, stays aloof from everyone. I daresay she thinks herself above the rest.”
“Has she said anything to that effect?” He drummed his fingers on his desk. He had no patience for household disputes.
Mrs. Morton clasped her hands in her lap. “Not precisely, but her general air is very off-putting.”
Frampton, sitting beside Mrs. Morton, raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
Henry shook his head. “I can hardly dismiss someone for being ‘off-putting’. As long as her work is satisfactory, I can see no issue.” He closed his ledger book. “Mrs. Morton, you may leave. I’ve a matter to discuss with Frampton.”
Mrs. Morton cast a suspicious glance between the two of them, but did not argue as she curtsied and left.
Henry leaned back in his chair. “Tell me the truth, Frampton. I do not wish for there to be contention belowstairs.”
Frampton focused his aging eyes on Henry’s. “My lord, you may have contention whether you wish it or not.”
“Why is that?”
“The problem is not with Rose, but the other servants.” He sighed. “Apparently one of the upper maids wished the open position to go to a younger sister and has spread resentment among the staff.”
“What nonsense.” The position was Henry’s to give, and the fact that any of his servants thought themselves entitled to it irritated him to no end.
“I quite agree.” Frampton cleared his throat. “I feel I should tell you I do not concur with Mrs. Morton’s assessment of Rose. She says the girl is pretentious, but I see her as reserved. In the week she has been here, I have found her to be hard working and eager to please.” He shook his head. “In truth, she smiles more than the rest of the household combined.”
Henry could easily believe that, thinking of his meeting with Miss Sinclair when she had smiled so gratefully at him. But a smile was not the making of a good servant. “Loyalty and diligence rank much higher in my opinion of a good servant than a pretty smile.”
“Then I hope she proves herself in time.”
“As do I,” Henry muttered. If Miss Sinclair did not succeed, he doubted he would ever see a penny of what her father still owed him.
Frampton nodded, but did not stand. Henry knew better than to think the conversation over. The butler had been a part of Norcliffe House as long as Henry could remember and he was well used to the man’s unassuming nature. “What is it, Frampton?”
The butler frowned, the lines of his face heavy. “Charlie had an errand in town this morning. When he returned, it was with distressing news.”
“What is that?”
“John Ramsbury has returned to the area.”
Henry’s chest tightened. He sat forward in his chair, his eyes focused on Frampton’s. “You’re certain?”
“Charlie heard it from the Ramsburys’ cook herself.”
“He’s back, then.” Henry’s voice growled low in his throat. “No doubt coming to see if his father is close enough to death to expect an inheritance soon.”
Frampton did not offer his opinion, but it was clear from his hard expression that he agreed. Henry shook his head, trying to ignore the heat flooding his veins. He had tried to put the past behind him, but it had clearly been a failed attempt. Even the thought of seeing John’s face—his narrow smirk and calculating eyes—made his shoulders tense.
Frampton was still watching him. Henry set his jaw and met his butler’s eyes again. “Thank you, Frampton.”
Frampton rose and gave a bow, deeper than his usual stiff motion. It was his way of showing support, and Henry was grateful for the gesture. He had never needed it more.
John Ramsbury had returned. His closest friend, his trusted ally—and the man who had taken everything from him.