You are overwhelmed by the sheer expanse of Hopesend, as well as by the fact that most of its halls and great rooms are decorated with portraits of an ethereally beautiful woman with raven locks and a devious look. You are certain these are depictions of the late Lady Craven, and despite your confidence in your own personality and good looks, you know your beauty cannot compare to her mysterious, commanding, dead-as-a-doornail brand of it.
You have never trusted ethereally beautiful women, and you wonder bitterly how Lord Craven has held onto any of his fortune, since he or his wife clearly spent a good deal of it commissioning portraits.
The eyes of each painting seem to scrutinize you as you follow Mrs. Butts down hallway after hallway, through rooms fine and rooms bare, to meet the cracking staff that Craven has assembled to care for himself and his home. Your home. You shudder.
To a man and woman, every member of Lord Craven’s staff bears the mark of some tragedy. Mrs. White, the cook, has a problem with falling asleep suddenly and deeply for odd spans of time. “You never know when tea will be ready with Cook, but it’s always worth the suspense!” Mrs. Butts insists while gently yanking the dozing woman up and off the pastries.
Then there is the mute scullery maid Betsy, a slip of a thing even younger than you, with eyes as wide as saucers and twice as expressive. “Betsy doesn’t use her words, I’m afraid,” Mrs. Butts explains. “But you will find she communicates just as fine as you or I might, love.”
As if to demonstrate, Betsy takes your hands into hers and squeezes them tightly, shaking her head vigorously no. You are unsure if she means that you have made a terrible decision, or the right one.
Before you can decide, a gentle cough interrupts you. A handsome young blond man dressed in black, with the flat-brimmed hat and white collar of a country vicar, smiles warmly at you.
“I am terribly sorry, I hope I didn’t startle you,” he says, his innocent blue eyes full of sincere concern. You merely gape, your mouth incapable of speech for your heart has leapt into it. The young man nods and holds out a hand in greeting. “I am the Reverend Simon Loveday, vicar of Ravenscar parish. I didn’t mean to intrude, but I thought I should pay a visit and welcome you to—”
“Fresh blood! Fresh blood!” A well-built middle-aged man with wild hair and wilder eyes barrels past Mrs. Butts and the Reverend Loveday, clutching a terrifyingly sharp shovel in his rough-hewn hands.
The handsome vicar maintains most of his composure. “Should you ever need my assistance, please call on me.” He smiles, clutching your hands warmly. “We should very much like to see you at church on Sunday.” With that he scampers away, leaving you with Mrs. Butts and the madman with the murderous gardening implement.
Mrs. Butts smiles her warmest smile yet and nods in his direction. “And that’ll be Higgenbottom, the groundskeeper. He keeps a lovely lawn and has few words, but blurts things out from time to time. Who among us doesn’t? He’s a good soul.”
“He’s a fool.” A voice, sharp as ice in winter, makes the hair on your neck stand on end. A man whose once-fine features have been whittled away by years to reveal a skeletal mask of pained distaste descends the stairs. He is dressed impeccably, his chin lifted defiantly, with all the pomp and self-importance of—
“Are you the butler?” you ask, knowing the moment the words escape your lips that they will give the haughty man the slap your hands cannot. His pale eyes narrow.
“I am Manvers,” he says brusquely and brushes past you, evidently intent on polishing the golden frame of a particularly imposing portrait of the late Lady Craven. “You may notice I am not quite as…compromised as the rest of Lord Craven’s staff. I was the late Lady Craven’s butler in the house where she grew up, when she was still Miss Blanche von Badwolff. I followed her here after her marriage to Lord Craven.”
You merely nod, at a loss for words while he sizes you up and clearly finds you wanting.
“There are many exquisite things in this house, which you will take care not to disturb,” Manvers continues as if he started the conversation with you, rather than the other way around. “Evidence of theft will lead to your immediate dismissal. Is that clear?”
“As crystal,” you respond through gritted teeth. You know you are required to be civil and polite to this man, but you find him irksome and in no measure attractive.
“Then good day.” Manvers finishes his polish with a flourish and a curt nod to you and Mrs. Butts. Then he turns on his heel and is gone.
“Never mind Manvers, love,” Mrs. Butts says, trying to keep an edge of darkness from her voice. “If you can.”
You are not sure you can, but you still have a job to do! Turn to .