“I understand,” Maggie murmured, “but Jenny, I know what it is to be without a parent. To love through stories and objects instead of faces and voices. Miss Emma only knows her mother from her uncle’s tales—and sometimes that isn’t enough.”
Jenny’s face closed with a snap. “Perhaps. But it isn’t for us to say what’s enough for her and what’s not. You’re her governess, I’m her nursemaid—but his Grace is her guardian. His Grace decides.”
A silence fell. Emma stood between them, eyes wide and uncertain. Maggie met Jenny’s gaze and lifted her chin.
“His Grace will never know,” she said quietly.
“Maggie…” Jenny whispered, paling.
“Nobody’s here. You won’t tell him, will you?”
Jenny hesitated. “Of course not, but—”
“Then we’ve nothing to fear,” Maggie said briskly—and turned the handle.
Click.
The latch gave way. The door swung open on silent hinges, releasing a breath of stale, dusty air. Jenny gasped. Emma said nothing.
Maggie stumbled forward, her foot catching on the low step inside. She steadied herself, heart hammering. The room beyond was brighter than she’d expected—almost dazzling after the dim corridor.
Too late to turn back now.
Emma darted past her, running into the centre of the room.
“It’s like snow,” she whispered in awe.
Chapter Seven
“Snow? It’s dust, I’m afraid,” Jenny remarked sourly, lingering on the threshold. “No one ever cleans in here.”
It was not the dust that made Emma think of snow, Maggie was certain. It was the white sheets shrouding every object, making pale drifts and mounds—crisp, gleaming, inviting as a slope after the first fall.Has she ever been sledging?Probably not.
The room was very bright; there were no curtains, and the tall windows poured in clean, steady light.
A proper morning room, Maggie thought. At home, they had had such a room, or so Papa styled it—a place, he said with pomp, where a lady wrote her letters before luncheon. But morning rooms ought to be bright. Theirs had faced the setting sun and was gloomy from dawn to dusk. When matters worsened and the few servants left, it was the first room shut up—not draped like this, but emptied. Every stick had been sold.
Clearing her throat, Maggie put this thought aside. “It must have been a beautiful room, once.”
Jenny offered no opinion. Emma scarcely heard her, darting about to lift the sheets and peer beneath: a large writing-desk; a long, low, empty bookcase; a padded sofa in fading green. At the far side stood a small raised platform bearing a single shrouded shape. Maggie needed no unveiling to guess what lay beneath.
She stepped onto the platform, smoothing her palm along the smooth, cool surface. Jenny coughed, uneasy. When Maggie glanced back she saw the nursemaid had at last entered the room but remained just within the door, all watchfulness and discomfort.
“We have seen enough,” Jenny said firmly. “We should go. Maggie, pray—”
Sensible counsel. The room was not large; there was little to explore.
Yet Maggie could not tear herself away. The wood beneath her fingers felt alive with polish and memory. She could not have said how she knew it, but this object had been the heart of the room.
Emma appeared at her side, peering at the odd shape. “What is it? Miss Winter?”
By way of answer, Maggie caught the corner of the sheet and whisked it back. Dust leapt and sparkled in the sun; she fancied she felt the motes settle in her hair and on her sleeves. Jenny sneezed.
“A pianoforte,” Maggie breathed. “And a handsome one.”
She pressed a key. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jenny flinch.
“It is in tune,” Maggie said, surprised. “After all these years.”
