Again the note of disapproval was barely concealed beneath his lofty, unconcerned air, and Rebecca sighed inwardly, minding the narrow steps they were now descending.
‘Indeed. TheMrs, in my case, is entirely a matter of courtesy. And you, Mr Brown? Married?’
‘No.’
The butler said nothing more, and Rebecca relented, too tired to force any further conversation or joviality upon the man.
Mr Brown threw open a door, through which both he and Rebecca had to duck to pass, and led them through the servants’ quarters. Down a corridor, past the servants’ hall, the kitchens and what Rebecca presumed was one of the pantries. Here, too, everything was worn, but clean, bright and surprisingly spacious for a house of this age and style.
Finally, Mr Brown stopped before a darkened square room at the end of the corridor, and extracted a key from his pocket. Rebecca watched with slight apprehension as he threw open the door and gestured her inside once a cloud of dust had settled. There was just enough light streaming through the dirtied windows for her to make out the monumental mess which awaited her, though Mr Brown lost no time in lighting a lamp so she could survey her new domain properly.
Rebecca managed to contain her shock—but only just—and only because she was intent on not giving Mr Brown the satisfaction of seeing it. He was watching her like a hawk, so she forced herself to put on her best uninterested expression. She gave no outward sign of noticing the precarious and haphazard piles of papers on the desk, the chairs and floors. No sign of seeing the dust, the cobwebs, and remains of tea and tobacco in every corner and on every surface. She gave no clue whatsoever to the fact that she had noted the tatty, broken and stained furniture—those pieces which weren’t upturned, at least—and the upended torn books, discarded pencils and the droppings from a variety of creatures.
She dared not even think what sight the adjoining bedroom would present.
‘Well, thank you, Mr Brown,’ Rebecca said with a smile.
His astonishment, though well hidden, was nonetheless apparent, and she raised her chin higher. It would take much more than this to discourage her.
‘Shall I meet you and the others in the servants’ hall in, say, half an hour? And perhaps someone could bring me some water?’
‘Of course, Mrs Hardwicke. I shall send Lizzie along.’
A bow and he had gone, leaving her a single key on the ledge by the door, beside a large set which she presumed was the housekeeper’s.
Rebecca shook her head, grabbed the desk chair—at first glance the most solid and least soiled item of furniture—and placed it outside her door. She set her coat on it, rolled up her sleeves and returned to the room to formulate a plan. Though she should be furious and appalled by this blatant mark of disregard and very plain lack of welcome, Rebecca was not. This was a clear demonstration of the staff’s disrespect for the position she now held—disrespect which she could not blame them for. There had been twenty-one housekeepers—twenty-one—in ten years. It was unfathomable.
No wonder, really, that they had few expectations and had made no effort. This was the housekeeper’s domain, and as such it was up to her to deal with her predecessors’ parting gifts. The staff had clearly given up on believing in housekeepers—just as her predecessors had, judging by the state of the room, given up on the house, the staff and themselves.
Yet in that moment, when many others would have felt defeated and dejected, Rebecca felt only pride and excitement. She would make this right, make them believe again. She’d always held the belief that there was a certain nobility to her vocation. It was up to the housekeeper to unite everyone on the staff in a shared goal and inspire them. So that was what she would do. For she was precisely where she was meant to be. Rebecca knew it in her heart. This place, these people, needed her.
I shall make a difference here if it’s the last thing I do. After all, no one said this would be easy, Rebecca Merrickson.
Precisely half an hour after her arrival, Rebecca stood before a nonplussed, grumpy-looking line of servants in the hall. They all stood straight, minded their manners and bore expressions of indifferent readiness—however, there was an air of boredom and irritation about them. As if they were all thinking in unison:Merciful heavens, not another one.
Rebecca understood the sentiment—just as she understood why they had left the housekeeper’s rooms in that horrific state. She understood their disbelief that she would last more than a day, a week or however long it was they had wagered on. And there was no doubt they had a wager going. She knew she wouldn’t win them all over immediately. However, she also knew that right now she needed to lay down her rules and her plans, so that when they saw her stand by them, then perhaps she would earn their respect and trust. They would see her as a worthy, steadfast leader.
Looking between them all, Rebecca tried to match faces to the names and positions Mr Leonards had provided. If she could call them all by name it might be just the trick to wake them up. Two already she knew: Mr Brown, and Lizzie, the pretty but tough-looking maid who had brought her a basin of water. So it couldn’t bethatdifficult.
The plump and comfortingly motherly-looking woman, older than her, currently sporting a scowl to disintegrate stone, was surely the cook, Mrs Murray. The girl standing by her, tiny and with the air of a ferret about her, was likely the scullery maid, Betsy. As for the gentlemen...
The older of the remaining three, with his rough brown wool breeches, jacket and worn linen shirt, had to be the head groom, Tim. With mousy hair, thick dark brows and a kind, open face, he seemed a gentle sort of fellow who would do well with horses. The young man beside him, dressed in similar attire, with big, round, innocent eyes and a perpetual smile must be the other groom, Sam. Which left Gregory to be the cheeky-looking but rather handsome blond youth in livery matching Mr Brown’s.
‘Good afternoon,’ Rebecca began in her most commanding, assured voice. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you all, and to be here in Thornhallow. As I am sure you know, I am Mrs Hardwicke, your new housekeeper.’
‘Welcome to Thornhallow ma’am,’ Tim said gruffly, with a tug at his forelock. ‘I’m—’
‘Tim?’
‘Aye, ma’am,’ the groom said, eyeing her as though she might prove to be a witch.
‘Thank you for your warm welcome.’Warmwas saying a lot, but then, buttering them all up a little wouldn’t hurt. ‘Now, you are head groom here, correct?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘And in the stables we have two mares and the old master’s horse, a thoroughbred?’
Tim nodded, looking increasingly aghast.
