Maggie lifted an eyebrow at Jenny. If the nursemaid disapproved, that would be the end of it. But after a brief hesitation, Jenny nodded.
“Everyone’s about their duties just now,” she said at last. “There’s no harm in it.”
***
“This,” Emma announced with an air of gravity, “is the Great Hall.”
Maggie fought not to gape. She considered herself a gentleman’s daughter, accustomed to refinement. But this—this was something else entirely.
The Great Hall could easily have swallowed her father’s entire London house. The ceiling soared high above them, gilded and moulded, while their footsteps echoed upon the marble floor. The air was chill and faintly draughty. Even a dozen roaring fireplaces could not have warmed that vast space.
Emma skipped ahead, her small shoes clacking on the floor. Jenny and Maggie followed at a slower pace, heads tilted to admire the portraits lining the walls.
“I don’t much like walking through here,” Jenny confided. “I always feel as though the old Burenwoods are glowering down at me.”
Maggie swallowed. “I can see what you mean.”
Some of the portraits were extremely old—severe men and stiffly robed women in padded velvet, their starched ruffs framing faces that had forgotten how to smile.
“Their eyes follow one,” Maggie murmured. “And I daresay they disapprove.”
“I imagine they disapprove of everything.”
They both stifled laughter, and Jenny linked her arm through Maggie’s. The gesture was companionable—warm.
How long has it been since I had a friend?she wondered.Papa frightened them all away. And when we lost our fortune, the rest melted like snow.
Before she could dwell on the thought, she noticed that the rhythmic click of Emma’s shoes had stopped. The little girl stood some yards ahead, staring fixedly at what appeared to be a blank stretch of wall.
When Maggie and Jenny drew nearer, she saw that Emma’s gaze was fixed on a small, narrow door set deep into the panelling.
“Miss Emma, dearest,” Maggie said softly. “What are you looking at?”
“This was Mama’s favourite room,” Emma said in a hushed voice. “Uncle told me. It was her parlour. She spent hours here.”
The air seemed to grow colder. Maggie laid a hand upon her shoulder.
“Perhaps your uncle might let you have it for your own one day,” she said gently.
Emma shook her head. “He won’t. He won’t even let me look inside. The door’s always locked.”
“Always?” Maggie turned to Jenny, frowning. “Surely she’s allowed to peek inside?”
Jenny was beginning to look uncomfortable. “His Grace has rules, Maggie. It ishishouse—and we are expected to keep to them.”
Maggie stepped closer to the door, inspecting it. Plain white paint, a simple brass knob and keyhole—nothing remarkable.
Why would he forbid her this?she thought.Surely he does not understand what it means to her.
“We might take a little look,” she suggested impulsively.
Emma’s eyes widened. “Could we?”
Jenny shook her head. “It’s not a good idea.”
But Maggie’s hand was already on the doorknob. It would doubtless be locked, and then it would end there—safely, harmlessly. But at least Emma would know she had tried.
Jenny’s hand caught her arm. “His Grace is particular about this room,” she whispered urgently. “He used to spend all his time here with his sister—and her husband, and Mr Middleton. I think it’s locked for the memories. We ought not intrude.”
