He held out the pouch to her, and in it she heard the jingle of coins, the rustle of paper. Her wages and letter of reference, no doubt. “My sister, Margie,” he said. “She’s getting up in years, and she’s been considering taking the pension her employer has offered her. I’ve sent a note round to her, and she’s expecting to meet with you. It’s a good position—a bachelor household, but the master doesn’t poach on his staff.” This he offered disdainfully, and she knew that he had not been unaware of the attentions that Mr. Acton had paid her. “I’ve taken the liberty of writing down the address for you. You could have another position in all haste, in all likelihood.”
His kindness touched her. Of course a servant would know the perils of job-hunting, of being cast out unexpectedly, and the general insecurity of a life of service. “Thank you, Mr. Cartwright,” she said, and this time the burn of tears was not unwelcome. “I do appreciate it. I shall be happy to meet with your sister.”
He offered her a small, tight smile. “Better things await,” he said. “I wish you the best of luck. Theverybest.”
And she nodded, and wished for a moment that it would have been acceptable to hug him. “I suspect I shall need it,” she said, on a small laugh. But she’d never been much of a believer in luck. She hadn’t had a shred of it in years.
∞∞∞
Claire arrived at the address marked upon the tiny card Cartwright had placed in the pouch at half three, her single valise in tow, hoping against hope that this position would come through for her. Finding a room for let would cut into her meager savings, and if she did not meet with Cartwright’s sister’s approval, she would have to stretch her wages as far as possible.
The Actons’ coachman had dropped her off just before the long, circular drive which was wreathed in linden trees whose leafless branches stretched toward the sky. The house itself was elegant, far finer than the Actons’ small townhouse. It would necessitate a large staff, of course, and she could only hope that overseeing such a large staff would come with an appropriately large salary.
The door was set beneath an awning and bordered by large, airy windows which sparkled in the afternoon sunlight, having been polished to a high shine. The house itself rose in two tall stories, which suggested to her that there would be myriad high ceilings in it to be kept clear of cobwebs, and with her housekeeper’s eye she estimated that there had to be at least fifty rooms. Which meant thatthishouse must belong to a peer—or at least an exceedingly wealthy gentleman.
The front steps were swept free of stray leaves, which was impressive given that the brisk wind that blew and swirled them around on the lawn would suggest that that particular task would be pointless. She climbed up the wide steps and grasped the brass knocker in her hand, rapping firmly upon the door.
Within moments she saw a hint of movement toward the narrow windows on either side of the door. The door opened, and a butler of middling years peered out at her. “Good afternoon,” he said, his face set in the placid serenity of an upper servant.
“Good afternoon, sir. I am Mrs. Hotchkiss,” Claire replied. “I believe Mrs. Cartwright is expecting me.”
The butler’s face shifted at once into welcome. “Ah,” he said. “Yes, indeed, you are expected. Do come in, Mrs. Hotchkiss, and allow me to show you into the kitchen. Mrs. Cartwright takes her tea there.”
Claire followed him into the foyer, admiring the parquet floors that gleamed in the light that poured in through the windows. Most of the homes she’d worked in had had marble floors, or else elegant tile, and they had been fine indeed—but this hardwood flooring gave the house a kind of comfortable hominess that the others had lacked. Thick rugs ran along the hallway leading further into the house, and plush carpet ran up and down the stairs rising to the upper floor.
The butler cleared his throat. “The master has some sensitivity to loud noises,” he said by way of explanation. “The rugs blunt the sound of footsteps, you see.” With a gesture of his hand, he indicated that she should follow along behind him.
Claire wondered if the master had perhaps been a soldier at some point—if the staccato click of boots on the floor might be too reminiscent of gunshots for his comfort. She’d heard of such things before, of men who had experienced so much death and trauma during the war that even the most mundane of noises could provoke a sort of unwanted recollection of the past. But surely a man of such clear wealth had never had to take up a military position. He must have had opportunities beyond those available to him as a soldier.
The kitchen was toward the rear of the house, down a long hallway and past a corridor that Claire assumed was a sort of servant’s galley, where excess linens and dry goods might be stored. As they approached, she thought she caught a whiff of freshly-baked gingerbread, redolent with the sweetness of molasses, cinnamon, and cloves. It was a comfortable sort of scent, one with which she was well-acquainted, but it stirred at her memory, forcing her to recall things hadn’t let herself think of in years: Gabriel, nipping a bite of it from between her fingers and declaring it the best he’d ever tasted. Over the course of their ill-fated romance, he’d had pounds and pound of it from her.
She brushed that unpleasant thought away, but the vague sensations of grief and loss it evoked remained.
“Here we are,” the butler said, pushing open a door. “Mrs. Cartwright, Mrs. Hotchkiss has arrived.”
Seated at a small table near a window overlooking the terrace, a woman in her mid-sixties lifted her head, her shrewd brown eyes assessing. She patted at her grey hair, which was constrained into a tight bun at the back of her neck, and summoned a genial smile as she waved Claire forward.
“That will be all, Mr. Bradshaw,” she said. “Thank you.”
The butler gave a bow and departed, his footsteps muffled by the rug lining the hallway.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Cartwright,” Claire said, as the older woman indicated that she should take the seat across from her. “I am very fond of your brother. I do appreciate your willingness to grant me an interview.”
“You’re younger than I had expected,” Mrs. Cartwright replied, a touch of understanding coloring her voice. “I daresay I can hazard a guess as to what manner of unpleasantness arose in your last position. My brother was vague, of course, regarding the circumstances, but he did speak well of you.” With one hand she cut off a thick slab of softly-steaming gingerbread from the loaf on the table between them and laid it on a plate, which she pushed across the table toward Claire, along with a fork.
“Thank you,” Claire said, clearing her throat and tearing a chunk off the gingerbread with the tines of her fork. “I’m afraid your assumption is likely correct. However, I do have a letter of reference. I assure you, my capability was never in question.” The gingerbread was sweet and fragrant. Claire would have added a touch of lemon juice for just a hint of a tang, to balance out the sweetness of the molasses, but on the whole it was a commendable effort. “I’ve long been in service. Of course I have never worked in quite so fine a house, but—I think, with proper training, I could manage it.”
A hint of a smile passed across Mrs. Cartwright’s face. “Confident. I do like that.”
“Notconfidentso much as capable, ma’am,” Claire corrected. “I do have the requisite skills. But I do not doubt that catering to a household of this size would be something of an adjustment. My former employers, the Actons, had a staff of twelve.”
“His lordship currently employs thirty,” Mrs. Cartwright returned. “Of course you would oversee the maids and the kitchen staff, and Mr. Bradshaw has charge of the rest. That would still leave you eighteen people to manage.”
Eighteen. The number was daunting, but…she nodded. “I could do it,” she said.
Mrs. Cartwright’s lips twitched, just at the corners. “The cook is French,” she said. “A wonder in the kitchen, to be sure, but he is a high-spirited man, prone to peevishness.”
“So are children,” Claire said flatly. “And I’ve managed them well enough before.” She’d spent a year as a governess before she had realized that she could command greater wages—and far more respect—as a housekeeper.
