Chapter Three
Rose had never been so exhausted in all her life. She’d thought selling the bookshop’s contents had been quite the task—taking inventory, packing the books, arranging their shipment to shops around the county. But even that chore paled in comparison to the drudgery she now experienced from the first light of dawn to the dark shadows of night.
Every waking hour of the last week had been spent in never-ending and draining tasks: sweeping every inch of the manor, dusting each surface, beating rugs for hours on end, washing windows, hauling buckets of water up and down stairs. Mrs. Morton made certain Rose had no chance to even catch a breath before assigning her a new undertaking. And every night, when the other maids finished their work—giving her smug glances as they passed—Rose worked on, scrubbing and polishing and trying very hard not to cry as the daylight faded.
Tonight was particularly difficult, though she could not say exactly why. Perhaps it was because her back hurt from the effort of bending over her fourth fireplace of the evening, or that her hands were cracked and sore from clenching the brush handle as she scoured and scrubbed the bricks. Or perhaps it was the aching beat behind her eyes that spoke of too little sleep.
But as she sat back against the edge of the fireplace to relieve the pain in her knees, she knew it was far more than that. It was the knowledge that this week had been the longest week of her life since Mama had died. If every week was to be as bone-wearying and demanding as this one, she did not know how she would survive.
Rose had done the equations. She was excellent at arithmetic, no matter how Lord Norcliffe doubted her abilities. At a maid’s wage, and paying her father’s prison fees, she would be working here for close to seven years. Seven years without any hope of promotion, approval, or friendship. Seven years without anything resembling happiness.
Sometimes she wished she wasn’t so very good with numbers.
Rose rested her head against the cold brick of the fireplace, soothing the throbbing in her temples. She closed her eyes and wished that when she opened them again, she would be back in their cozy rooms above the bookshop, Papa reading aloud from their newest acquisition, warm cups of tea in their hands. Since she was dreaming of impossible things, she added Mama next to her on the settee, mending Papa’s coat, an easy laugh on her lips.
If only her desperate imaginings could be as real as the cruel stone and choking darkness that surrounded her now.
∞∞∞
The candles burned low throughout the drawing room, the evening creeping in the windows. Henry squinted at his book—a particularly dull text about farmland irrigation—and could not focus on the words. He exhaled and tossed the book on the table beside him. He could call a servant to bring more candles, but the dim light was rather a good excuse not to continue wading through such a tedious task.
Since his steward had left for another position to be closer to his ill mother, Henry had been utterly overwhelmed by the work left to him. He knew he needed to hire another steward, but trust came slowly to him. Mr. Turner had been his father’s steward for over a decade; finding a suitable replacement would take time.
Henry stood, walking to the window and peering out into the darkness. He could see nothing but the barest outline of the trees, the sky a lighter shade of black. Turning back, he surveyed the empty drawing room: brocaded sofas, plush rugs and cushions, the enormous stone fireplace. Two letters lay on the writing desk in the corner, one from each of his older sisters, both inviting him to visit. He was sorely tempted; he missed his nephews and nieces, and his sisters, though they were several years his senior—and always keen to play matchmaker. But visiting them would also require that he step into Society once more, and he was far from willing to do that.
In any case, he could hardly leave Norcliffe House now, not with his steward gone, Ramsbury returned, and Miss Sinclair making trouble belowstairs.
The silence and loneliness grew with every second, so he retrieved his book and left the room. The halls were dimly lit, as he’d ordered. No need to keep candles burning in every corridor when he was the only family member in residence.
Henry entered the library, striding toward where he had found the book earlier. Halfway there, he stopped. His shadow stretched long and spindly against the bookshelves lining the room. Where was that light coming from?
He turned. A figure sat on the floor—a maid. She leaned against the edge of the fireplace, a flickering candle beside her. The weak light played across her face; lips parted, eyes closed, her features soft.
He stepped forward, wanting to be sure he wasn’t mistaken. But it was Miss Sinclair, so fast asleep she hadn’t even heard him enter. What on earth was she doing here? The other servants would have finished their work long before. But she was still surrounded by buckets and brushes. Mrs. Morton had said she was slow, but he’d not expected to see her still working at nearly eleven o’clock.
Except she wasn’t working; she was sleeping. He scowled. No matter her circumstances or inexperience, this was unacceptable. He drew closer, taking in her ash-covered dress and messy tendrils of dark hair. Nudging her with his boot seemed a bit low, even for a servant. In the end, he cleared his throat.
“Miss Sinclair.” His voice pierced the quiet of the room. She started, her head snapping up, eyes blinking against the faint candlelight as she looked hazily about the room. Then her gaze froze on his boots, and slowly traveled up to meet his.
Her mouth dropped open and she scrambled to her feet. “Lord Norcliffe,” she stammered, brushing off her skirts with frantic motions.
He clasped his hands behind his back, still holding his book, letting his disapproval show on his face. “I don’t recall napping in my library to be among your duties.”
“I am sorry, I did not mean to—” Her voice failed and she dropped into a wobbling curtsy. “I only closed my eyes for a moment. I promise I haven’t done it before, I was just resting before finishing the other grates.”
The panic in her eyes was real. Henry felt the tiniest bit of guilt, but he pushed it away. He was the master of the house. Why should he feel guilty for reprimanding his own servant?
“Mrs. Morton has told me you are slow in your work.” His voice was cold and hard. “I did not realize how slow.”
Miss Sinclair dropped her gaze and wrung her hands before her. “I am trying, my lord. And I am improving, I promise. This is only my fourth grate this evening. By the sixth, I’m certain I’ll be something of an authority.”
He raised an eyebrow. Most of his servants said nothing beyond “Yes, my lord.” But not having been trained in service, Miss Sinclair did not understand she was running her tongue.
Then he realized what she had said. “You were assigned to clean six grates this evening?”
She met his eyes. “Yes, of course.”
He knew nothing about the work of a maid, but cleaning six fireplaces in one evening seemed excessive, especially after a full day of work.
“You needn’t worry about me finishing tonight,” she said hastily. “I did this fireplace in half the time as the first.” She paused. “Well, except for the napping.”
Henry squinted at her. Was that a joke? She went on before he had a chance to decide.
“I’ll be done with the rest of them in no time.” She did not wait for his dismissal, bending to pick up her buckets. As she moved closer to the candlelight, he caught a glimpse of her hands for the first time. They were an angry red, cracked and dry.
“Your hands,” he said without thinking. “What happened?”
Miss Sinclair inhaled sharply, straightening as she tucked her hands behind her. “Nothing, my lord.”
It was clearly not nothing. Henry scrutinized her face, looking up at him with quiet determination, and understanding dawned. Her battered hands were a result of her work. She had been a shopkeeper’s daughter before this, a life of relative comfort. She’d likely never known the hard labor of a servant. And yet not one word of complaint crossed her lips.
He fought the sympathy that rose inside him, tried to keep his thoughts objective. She was a servant now, and this was part of her life. She had accepted the post, hadn’t she? It had been her choice.
Then why did he feel such accountability for the pain she was in?
“Go to bed.” His words were gruff. “You may finish your work in the morning.”
She stared at him. “My lord, I cannot. Mrs. Morton—”
“I will speak to Mrs. Morton,” he said. “I’ll not have you work yourself into illness. You’ll be no use to me then.”
She did not speak for a long moment. Her dark eyes were wide, shimmering in the candlelight. Or were those tears once again? “Thank you,” she said in a soft voice.
His stomach gave a lurch at her words. He ignored it and gave a stiff nod, the issue settled. But instead of taking her things and leaving, Miss Sinclair stood still, watching him with a curious expression. She hesitated, glancing down to her feet, then back to his face. “What are you reading, my lord?”
He narrowed his eyes. The girl had no sense of propriety. He had given her a clear dismissal. “Techniques on farming irrigation,” he answered shortly, certain his dull response would bring an end to this conversation.
“Are you enjoying it?”
Why should she care if he enjoyed his reading? “As much as anyone can enjoy such a subject.”
She brushed back a lock of her dark hair, leaving a streak of ash across her cheek. “Why do you not read something you enjoy?”
“I cannot say I’ve ever enjoyed reading,” he said. “I do not have the patience for it.”
She gave a light laugh, contrasting strangely with the shadows under her eyes. “Then you are simply not reading the right books. I daresay I would dislike reading as well if I was forced to read about farming irrigation.”
He tilted his head, scrutinizing her. “And what book would you recommend to me, then?” He couldn’t say exactly why he was prolonging this conversation. It was hardly appropriate for them to be speaking at all. But the strangest curiosity rose inside him as he watched her. Miss Sinclair spoke to him as if it was perfectly natural, as if he was not a baron and she a maid. He could not decide if he liked the feeling or not.
She gave a little smile. “Oh, for you it shall have to be Robinson Crusoe. You’ll not find your attention wandering with that tale, I am quite certain.”
“You’ve read it?” he asked in disbelief.
She laughed again. “Do not be so very shocked. I read everything, even stories with cannibals and mutineers. It is—” Her voice cut out, and she cleared her throat. “That is, it was one of our more popular books at the shop.”
The mention of her shop seemed to shake her, and she took a step back, fussing with the apron at her waist. “I am sorry, my lord, I should not blather on so. I’m sure you have much to do.”
He opened his mouth, whether to reassure her or agree with her, he could not say. Before he could speak, she curtsied, took hold of her buckets, and ducked from the room, leaving him staring after her in bewilderment.