I step outside into a hallway draped in silence and cobwebs I didn’t notice the night before. There’s no sign of activity, which means the other staff has already left for breakfast. Shit. I’ll be the last one to arrive. I square my shoulders, picturing a table full of maids and butlers and busybodies, all wanting to know about the new girl.
Thank God I already wrote out my fake backstory when I replied to the advert on Facebook Marketplace.
The farther down I go, the quieter the house becomes, but it’s still crumbling, looking left to rot. My footsteps echo down long hallways lined with oil paintings of faces blurred by time, or maybe just grime. Most of the doorsare locked, and the few left open contain furniture draped in cloth. I pass a lounge covered in a faint layer of dust, a library that smells of old paper before giving up.
But I still don’t pass any staff. I don’t hear any voices or even the clatter of dishes or the dull rhythm of someone sweeping. Shouldn’t a house this size be crawling with people?
My stomach tightens as I search the ground floor. The kitchen must be close. I pass a window overlooking the gardens and swear I catch a glimpse of a figure moving toward the forest that borders the grounds. By the time I pause for a better look, he’s already gone.
I round a corner to find a view of the gardens where the lawns fall away into cliffs. Suppressing a shiver, I remind myself that no one hunting me would think to look somewhere so isolated.
Eventually, I follow the faint smell of cooking and reach the kitchen, which is surprisingly well kept. It’s enormous with an industrial stove, copper pots hanging from hooks, every surface wiped clean. It’s like they’ve concentrated all the maintenance budget in this single room.
I scan for signs of life: an apron slung over a chair, a clipboard on the counter, a dish left out to dry, but there’s nothing. Just pristine surfaces and closed drawers, like the room is staged, instead of used.
And still no sign of any staff.
At the far end of the kitchen sits a single place setting of a white plate, silverware, and a napkin folded to a perfect triangle.
What the hell?
Movement at the edge of my vision makes me startle. Mrs. Fairfax emerges from a side door, still masked and ina starched black dress identical to mine. She’s even more imposing in the harsh light of day, with her shoulders squared and her black eyes fixing on my chest.
“In Rochester Manor, we have a dress code.” The words are flat, but her gaze is sharp enough to slice skin.
I glance down at the gaping buttons. “Then maybe the dress should fit.”
Her stare drags over my body, slow, cold, and judgmental. My cheeks heat, and I force myself not to cross my arms over my chest. When her eyes finally return to mine, I resist the urge to step back.
Silence stretches between us like a wire about to snap. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just looms there studying me like I’m a specimen to dissect or discard. My skin crawls under the intensity of her stare. I force myself not to fidget, but the seconds drag on until I’m on the verge of screaming.
Finally, she gestures at the place setting and says, “I’ll see what I can do. Now, eat.”
She lifts the lid off a platter on the side containing fried eggs, bacon, sausages and tomatoes, and returns with a pot of coffee that smells like heaven. My stomach chooses this moment to rumble, making me flush. The huge woman tilts her head, studying me like she’s never experienced a day of hunger. Avoiding her gaze, I scurry over to the counter and load my plate.
“Is everyone else at work?” I ask, spearing a sausage.
“Mr. Rochester has only two employees,” she replies.
What? I turn to meet her beady glare. “In a house as big as this?”
Mrs. Fairfax continues staring at me like I’m an exhibit. When she doesn’t reply, I shift my weight from one foot to the other, trying to hide my unease. Thiswoman is beyond unnerving. She could strangle someone with her silence. Her gaze follows me as I take the plate to the single place setting on the table and pick up my fork.
“When do I meet the children?” I ask.
Mrs. Fairfax blinks. “There’s only one.”
I pause, my brow pinching. “I thought the ad said a boy and a girl.”
“No. A daughter.”
“What’s her name?”
“Adele.”
“Will I meet her today?”
“No,” she replies.
