Well, that is, Iwantto be grateful.
But the text makes it difficult. It is so tiresome, and although my impulse is to blame the author for not writing with the same liveliness as E. T. A. Hoffmann, it is the subject itself that is leaden.
Josiah Pullman simply cannot hold my interest.
In truth, I am shocked he can hold anyone’s interest.
Even so, the attempt helps pass the time, and when I look at the clock, I see that it’s five minutes after nine, which is at once good and bad. Sebastian is definitely dressed and ready for breakfast by now, but he has yet to appear, which is strange.
Stranger still is the fact that I have not seen anyone in the past half hour—neither a member of the family nor a servant. We are in the country, after all, where I was awakened yesterday morning at seven. The house keeps early hours, especially thestaff. One of the maids or footmen should have noticed my presence in the parlor and asked if I required anything.
The Holcroft family en masse may sneer at the Hyde-Clares all they like, but at least our servants know how to offer a guest a cup of tea.
Peeved, Ithwopthe book closed.
That is enough ofthat!
Rising to my feet, I return the volume to the table and stride into the corridor to look for Sebastian. Perhaps he had approached the breakfast room from the other direction. If so, he would have no idea I was waiting next door to be reassured.
He is not in the breakfast room.
Nobody is.
Whereas on previous mornings the sideboard had been laid with plates of eggs, toast, pastries, and jam, today it is bare. Not a single muffin rests on its gleaming surface.
Struck by the oddity, I turn to the table and see two half-filled teacups and a sugar bowl in the center, a clear indication that two people were here.
And now they are gone.
Baffled, I wonder if breakfast is being served somewhere else.
It is Tuesday, which does not stand out for any particular reason, but we are in the country and country folk pride themselves on doing things differently.
Perhaps Tuesday is when they lay out breakfast in the drawing room.
No, not the drawing room. It is too far from the kitchens.
Out of deference to the staff, the family would use the dining room.
Returning to the hallway, my stomach growling now with the first pang of hunger, I proceed to the dining room. At the end of the corridor, I turn left and watch as a footman dashes upthe staircase. Even as I raise my hand to gain his attention, he disappears around the bend. A moment later, a maid emerges from a doorway at the far end and follows closely on his heels. Rather than call out, I mount the steps myself, spurred by curiosity at the bizarreness of it all.
Mrs. Holcroft runs an orderly household. The presentation of every meal has been pristine, with each dish served at the precisely correct temperature, a feat Mama rarely accomplishes, and everything about my bedchamber is perfect. Every time I lay my head down to sleep, my pillows smell of fresh rosemary.
It is a marvel.
If the servants are behaving in unexpected ways, then that is because something unexpected has happened.
I want to know what.
Aware that there is something transgressive and gauche about stalking the servants, I proceed cautiously to avoid detection. When the maid pauses on the second floor, I pause as well. It is brief and she resumes her climb. At the next landing, she stops again, then proceeds to the right. Before I arrive at the top, I hear the hum of voices, which is even odder. Staff typically do not congregate on the third floor when there is breakfast to be served, and as soon as I turn into the corridor, I see the cluster.
But it is not just servants.
Mrs. Dowell is there.
Chester is there.
Even Mrs. Holcroft, her clasped hands clenched so tightly that her knuckles are white, is standing there, her presence conferring silent approval.
