CHAPTER 2
Anne
When Anne arrived home two hours later, anxiety tightened her chest as it always did when the large gray manor came into view. It was cold and unfeeling, much like its owner, as if each wall were carefully designed to suppress joy.
Sheltered in the grassy downs several miles from the center of town, the property lay behind an ornate wall and gatehouse. It was rumored that Master Drummond had chosen this residence because his wife had fallen in love with the nearby woods. Anne knew the nine bedchambers and seven chimneys of the stone structure by heart, for on more than one occasion she’d been forced to clean them all.
As she entered, the estate buzzed with activity. Everyone appeared to be elbow deep in chores and preparations. Margery, the housekeeper, bickered with the elderly gardener about the roses for the table settings. Margery had gray hair and a pronounced limp (for one leg was shorter than the other), and as head of the kitchen, she took her duties seriously. If Mrs. Drummond had still been alive, Margery would have been second in command to her.
The two housemaids bustled about with dusting cloths, trying to shine the brass and polish the silver. Even the three-legged cat had something to do as it scurried away to devour the unlucky mouse clenched between its teeth.
“Well, it’s about time you showed yourself. What were you doing for so long?” Margery pounced as Anne hung her shawl on a peg near the back door. “Did you go out into the woods and kill the deer yourself?”
Steeling herself against the housekeeper’s anger, Anne turned to face her, the lie ready on her lips. “There was no good venison to be had today. Master Drum—”
Margery’s eyes narrowed, and she cuffed Anne on the side of the head. Luckily, she never used much force.
Anne’s cap flew off, but she caught it with her hands as her thick braid fell down her back, setting loose several more strands of hair.
“What? No venison? The master said he wanted venison for tonight, what with his son being gone for so long. The next time he requests it, make sure you get to the market earlier.”
Anne nodded, preparing herself for a second strike. She didn’t mention that she’d been up since before dawn. Any earlier, and she could have milked the cows for the farmer down the road.
“It’s a good thing I made the master’s favorite tartlets. At least you did right with the shrimp,” Margery said, limping over to the fireplace to stoke the embers.
“Shrimp?” Anne asked, her head snapping up.
Margery gave Anne an odd look. “Aye, shrimp. I didn’t think I’d given you enough for a whole barrelful, but that’ll feed the lot of them, to be sure.”
Confused, Anne left the pail and pheasants on the table and followed Margery into the pantry. There on a shelf was a barrel of shrimp. The same barrel Anne had seen earlier that morning.
Margery read the surprise on her face and hesitated. “You did ask the fishmonger to deliver them, didn’t you?”
What was the right thing to say? Anne truly could not explain how the shrimp had gotten here. She was merely grateful that they had, for it meant that she would have a roof over her head, at least for one more night. And it meant that she could keep the leftover coins still in her pocket.
Every time Anne went to market, she saved whatever change she had left, for Master Drummond did not pay her nearly enough so that she might eventually afford passage on a ship bound for the West Indies. She’d also taken to pilfering the odd spoon or empty goblet from the household.
In a few weeks’ time she would sell it all and leave on the Deliverance. Surely no one would expect her to be so bold as to depart on her master’s ship.
Margery waited. “Well?” she asked.
“The fishmonger delivered them,” Anne said, not quite phrasing her statement as a question.
“That’s what I’m telling you, girl. Are you daft?”
Anne pictured the young sailor on his knees, his green eyes flashing fire, promising revenge if he ever caught up to her again. Had he simply given them back to the fishmonger? Why would he do that? The sailor had told her he had an important meal. It didn’t make any sense for him to change his mind.
Even if he had, why on earth would the fishmonger have brought the whole barrel to the house? Anne had told him she needed only two pounds, not the whole lot.
Masking her confusion, Anne brushed past Margery and emptied the contents of her pail. “I’ll get to the shrimp as soon as I dress the pheasants and start the vegetables,” she said, a knot of unease forming in her chest. What would the fishmonger demand in return, she wondered. Would she have to look for another stall at the docks as well?
Pushing those unsavory thoughts aside, she worked quickly and efficiently for the next few hours. An excellent cook, Anne’s mother had taught Anne how to prepare delicious meals, and Anne took special care to make sure things were done according to Master Drummond’s specifications. Most of the time there weren’t any problems.
That day, Margery had hired a young girl to help with the cooking. Normally Margery and Anne were able to handle all the duties in the kitchen themselves—Master Drummond typically ate alone and never had much company. But the return of the master’s son was an important occasion, and Anne was grateful for the extra help.
Twelve-year-old Ruth peeled and chopped the potatoes with practiced ease. She was slight in stature and pale, her light blond hair plaited down her back in a thin rope. Anne felt the girl studying her as they worked.
“Do you have any family?” Anne asked, trying to fill the awkward silence between them.
Ruth dipped her head, her small hands flying. “Aye, ma’am.”
“Any brothers or sisters?”
“Aye, ma’am. Three brothers and two sisters.”
“Are you the eldest?” Anne asked.
“No, ma’am, the youngest. My sister Elizabeth is the eldest. My grandfather is the gardener here.”
“Ah, so that’s how you came to get the job.”
Ruth nodded.
Trying to extract information from her was painful. Anne bit her lip, working silently for a few minutes. Once the vegetables and pheasants were roasting, they turned their attention to the shrimp. Anne showed Ruth where the cistern was to gather water to fill the large pot.
“All right, then. We just wait for the water to boil, and then we’ll add the shrimp. Have you ever tasted shrimp before?” Anne asked.
Ruth shook her head. “No, ma’am.”
“Please, call me Anne,” Anne said gently. “I’m not much older than you and much too young to be called ma’am.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Ruth said automatically.
Anne laughed. “Tell you what. Once the shrimp are ready, I’ll let you try one. It can be our secret.”
Ruth’s brown eyes lit up, and she gave Anne a timid smile. “Yes, ma—”
Anne raised an eyebrow at her.
“Yes, Anne,” she said.
“Good girl. But don’t tell Margery.”
“Don’t tell Margery what?” came a shrill voice behind Anne.
Anne’s back stiffened. “That I might have added too much salt to the water.” It was the first thing that came to mind.
“Well, that’s easily fixed. Go and get fresh water,” Margery said gruffly.
Making a face at Ruth, Anne dutifully took the heavy pot and dumped the perfectly good water out the back door, effectively washing the step for the second time that day. Instead of making Ruth take the trip down to the cistern again, Anne filled the pot herself. It was cool and dark in the lower story, and she enjoyed the solitude.
While there she heard a commotion coming from upstairs. The master’s son, Mr. Edward, had apparently returned. He had been expected the previous evening, but a storm had delayed his arrival, and Master Drummond had not been pleased, especially with company coming later that afternoon.
Anne stayed where she was. If he was anything like his father, she certainly wasn’t in a hurry to greet him. The master was a cold and angry man, preoccupied with improving his social status in the community, and he was well aware that many aristocrats mocked him behind his back. Wealth wouldn’t be enough if Master Drummond were ever to attain the higher circles to which he aspired, which was why he’d arranged for his son to wed Miss Patience Hervey, the daughter of a local baron.
Although Anne had yet to meet either party, she thought it might be a most fortuitous match. She’d heard it said that God had made men and women, and then he’d made the Herveys. The family was known for their overbearing and overconfident manner.
Margery had said the master would have liked nothing more than to set his sights higher and have his son marry the daughter of an earl or a duke. But a baron was one of the few peerages that could descend through female lines, and by Mr. Edward’s marrying Miss Patience, any Drummond offspring would be titled.
Once Anne returned to the kitchen, she set the pot in the hearth. It would take some time for the water to boil. She looked around for Ruth, but the girl was nowhere to be found.
The two housemaids were in the washing kitchen, fighting over the flowers in one vase, each girl wanting to take the large red blossoms to the respective guest rooms.
“I heard the young Miss Patience likes red roses,” Sara spat, her slender fingers white from holding the vase so tightly. She was a handsome girl with dark hair and wide brown eyes.
Leaning back, Mary, the plumper of the two, shook her head, her blond curls shaking. Her normally pretty face had turned pink from exertion. “I don’t care. The baroness should have them.”
Rolling her eyes, Anne marched past them on her way outside. She debated about telling them that the female members of the Hervey family would most likely bring their own lady’s maids, and any attempt on the housemaids’ part to take over that position would surely be wasted.
She had no sooner finished her thought than there was a loud crash from behind her, followed by two shrill cries.
Now they’ve gone and done it.
Anne returned to the scene and discovered both girls crying and wringing their hands. There were glass shards everywhere, and the water was forming small puddles on the stone floor. The stems and blossoms of the flowers were unharmed, and Margery swooped in and plucked them up, turning on both girls. She gave them each a swift smack upside the head. Both Sara and Mary clutched their ears, recoiling from Margery’s rage.
“What do you think you’re doing? We don’t have time for this kind of nonsense. Sara, you clean up this mess. Mary, you go and find another vase, and don’t you dare touch any of the tartlets in the pantry. Those are for dessert.” She pointed an accusing finger at Anne. “Where were you earlier when Mr. Edward arrived?”
“I didn’t know my presence was needed.”
Margery took a threatening step toward her, the glass crunching underfoot. “Don’t act so smart with me. Take the young master some water, since you’re so fond of the cistern. He’ll be wanting a bath.”
Relieved to leave the bickering behind, but loath to face the new master, Anne headed down the cold, stone steps once more, grumbling to herself. It took her twelve trips up the many flights of stairs to fill the large brass hip tub in the young sir’s second-story chamber.
By the time she was finished, her back was drenched with sweat, her face flushed with heat. The last few buckets had been filled with steaming water. Master Drummond insisted they keep a pot of water in the washing kitchen for such purposes. He was fanatical about cleanliness, as it was next to godliness in his eyes.
There was still no sign of the young master, and Anne stuck her arm into the tub, swirling the water to mix the hot with the cold. She was tempted to climb in herself, and laughed out loud at the thought.
A low voice behind her stopped her heart cold. “So, you’ve changed your mind, have you? Come to talk to me about the price of the shrimp after all?”