Chapter Nine
Were all barons so peculiar? Rose was inclined to believe that Henry—Lord Norcliffe—was a most unusual exception.
How many men of wealth and privilege would bother to spend most of their mornings in the company of a maid? But every morning for a fortnight, as she began her work in the library, organizing and cleaning, he found her. He brought along his ledger books and claimed a table in the corner for himself. They worked alongside each other, quiet at times, but often in earnest conversation. They spoke of so many things Rose could hardly keep them straight. They discussed their educations—he at Harrow and Cambridge, she at a girls’ boarding school—and their families and childhoods, which were not so different, considering their difference in status.
“Do you think it odd,” she asked him one morning, as she lifted a stack of books onto the table, “that we have never met before?” She could remember catching glimpses of the late Lord and Lady Norcliffe in town over the years, but never any of their children.
“Not terribly odd, no,” he said from where he sat drafting a letter. “My family was often in London.”
“I suppose,” she said. “But perhaps we met as children and we simply cannot recall.”
He looked up from his letter. “I sincerely doubt I ever met you before. I would have remembered.”
She glanced away, hoping he did not notice the heat claiming her cheeks. She had a difficult time reconciling this man with the surly one she had first met in his study. Now he looked quite at ease, sitting there as if he had not a care in the world, though she knew he had more than a few pressing matters, acting as steward of his own estate. She could not bring herself to feel guilty about his time spent with her, however. He seemed to enjoy their talks as much as she did.
And she enjoyed them very much.
When he spoke in that deep, even tone of his—of his sisters and parents, the escapades of his nephews—she was transported from the feeling of entrapment that settled on her so easily. Her determination to see things through with a smile was challenging to keep up all the time. She’d had no more word from Marshalsea since she’d sent the money she’d earned from selling her necklace, and her worry grew with every passing day. But her mornings with Henry brought light into her darkening world, reminding her of all she had left and all she must continue to work to save.
In the moments of quiet, she stole glances at him, trying to piece together the puzzle that was the Baron Norcliffe. Even with his sharp jaw and angled cheekbones, his face now looked softer somehow. Likely because he did not wear the perpetual scowl he’d sported the first few times they had met. And his blue-grey eyes were not so shadowed as they were before. In fact, they were lightest when they rested upon her.
Which was quite often. For as many times as she stole looks at him, he seemed to watch her just as much. Each time their eyes collided, she smiled and looked away, though it left her insides tilted, as if she was about to again fall from a stool.
You are being ridiculous, she scolded herself. You are not a schoolgirl. There was no possible way the baron looked at her with anything but friendship in mind. He was simply glad to find someone to talk to, to relieve the painful absence of his parents. If her company helped him find his way from that hole of grief, she would gladly do what she could.
However, their sunlit mornings could not last forever. Henry always had meetings with tenants and crops to oversee, and she had Mrs. Morton’s endless list of chores after her time in the library each day.
Tonight was a particularly trying task: scrubbing the expansive floor of the portrait gallery. When she finally stood at the end of the hall, stretching her back and wincing at the pain in her knees, she felt a pride in her work. Even if she did it to pay a debt, it was good to do a job well.
She collected her rags and bucket, filled with brown, sloshing water, and made her way belowstairs. Laughter and conversation drifted from the servants’ hall, which she tried to ignore. She did not think that being assigned to the library had caused any further issues, but the household staff—save for Frampton—still treated her as if she had a particularly contagious disease. Perhaps in time they would soften toward her, once they realized she was there to stay. It was not as though she had taken up this position on a curious whim. She sincerely needed both the money and the stability.
She stepped outside into the cool evening air and went to dump her bucket in the courtyard behind the house. Then she set it down and sighed, moving farther out into the night, her eyes going to the sky overhead where the first stars pierced the gray-black. She spent a few minutes of silence there, relishing the quiet and wishing she did not have only a dull, cramped bedroom to return to.
As she turned to go inside, she heard a noise, a whisper in the dark. It was a woman’s voice, from around the corner of the house. Footsteps moved closer, and then another voice answering, deep and unmistakably male.
Rose did not want to eavesdrop, but neither did she wish to have any sort of contact with another servant at the moment. She did not particularly care for scathing looks and mocking smiles. She slipped behind the wash house, set away from the manor, and waited for the voices to pass.
Instead, they grew louder, stopping quite close to her.
“We have to do it soon,” said the man’s voice. “As soon as possible.”
Rose did not recognize the voice, though that was hardly peculiar, considering how many servants were employed at Norcliffe.
“This cannot be rushed.” The woman’s voice was brusque and cool, one Rose did know. Mrs. Morton. “I must make certain everything is in place to deter his suspicion.”
“Of course. We cannot compromise your position here. You are far too valuable.” The man’s tone was smooth, slipping over his words like butter on hot bread. “But the longer we wait, the greater the chance he will move it.”
What on earth were they talking about? Who was suspicious, and what was being moved? Uneasiness rose inside her, and she tried to push it away. Surely it was none of her concern. And yet, why were they being secretive, meeting out here in the dark?
Mrs. Morton was silent for a long moment before answering. “Very well.” She lowered her voice, muttering a few words that Rose could not make out. She leaned forward, as if the distance of a few inches might allow her hearing to reach, but to no avail.
“Excellent,” the man said. Rose could almost hear the smile in his voice. “A pleasure, as always, Mrs. Morton.”
Footsteps sounded as the man left, and Rose waited, certain Mrs. Morton would go inside and join the other servants. But Mrs. Morton’s steps grew louder, coming in the direction of the washhouse that Rose now hid behind.
Her pulse jumped inside of her. Whatever Mrs. Morton and the stranger had been discussing, it had not been anything they wanted overheard. She grabbed up her bucket and hurried a few steps away, acting as if she had just emptied it.
Mrs. Morton turned the corner and stopped short. “Miss Sinclair,” she barked.
Rose turned, forcing a look of surprise. “Mrs. Morton.”
She could barely see the housekeeper’s face by the light from a nearby window, but there was no denying the distrust in her eyes. “What are you doing? You can’t have finished the gallery yet.”
Rose kept her eyes wide and innocent, though she did not have to pretend the tremor in her voice. “Only just. Came to empty my bucket.”
Mrs. Morton harrumphed. “I’ll be inspecting it tomorrow. If I find your work lacking …”
Her voice drifted off, the threat so familiar to Rose by now that she did not even bother to worry over it. What frightened her most was the hard look in Mrs. Morton’s eyes, beyond the usual dislike.
“I’ll look it over again tonight,” Rose managed, dropping her eyes.
Mrs. Morton sniffed and strode away. Rose let out a short breath, her heart beating furiously as if it had stopped during the entirety of the conversation.
Had she convinced Mrs. Morton that she had not overheard anything? She was hardly a talented actress, though her fear had been real. Mrs. Morton and the silver-tongued man were planning something, and certainly nothing innocent, or they would not need to meet in shadowy corners of the estate late at night.
What should she do? The first thought in her mind was to tell Henry. Except she had nothing substantial to tell. They had given no details or even said anything that might paint them as particularly suspicious. But the feeling that twisted in her stomach—a cold, dark sensation—signaled that something was not right. And Henry ought to know if something was not right in his home.