“Thank you again, Miss Downing. I shall be sure to tell the Holton Agency of your courage today,” Bramstone said.
“If I could ask a favor, Mr. Nightingale,” Eliza said.
“Of course.”
The man’s eyes focused on her as she thought about what she needed to say.
“The Holton Agency is very strict, sir?—”
“Therefore, you wish for me to be glowing in what I say, as long as it is only about your governess duties?”
Relief had her nodding at Bramstone Nightingale, relieved he understood.
Mrs. Holton kept meticulous records on every girl registered with her. Eliza had heard about the ledger from the others—Mrs. Holton always had it open before her when delivering a reprimand. Praise was rare. The book held everything from names, details, and feedback from clients.
Never fraternize with any members of the family.
Never speak unless addressed directly by a senior family member.
The Holton Agency rules were constantly running through her head.
“Well, you have no need to worry about that again for a while, Miss Downing,” Lord Seddon said.
Eliza should never have spoken to Mr. Fraser the way she had in the watchhouse—should never have commented about fearing small spaces. But the moment he’d stepped out of the cell, she had seen he was suffering.
He was pale, wide-eyed, panic carved into every taut line of his face. His hands were fisted so tightly, his knuckles were white.
No one else seemed to notice. No one saw the terror beneath his anger. But she had, and he’d hated her for it. Or perhaps hated that she’d seen too much.
The men returned to the carriage then, hands full of baked goods. The scent made her mouth water.
“Do you like apricotines, Miss Downing?” Alexander Nightingale asked.
“I have yet to try them, sir.” She’d never had money for such things.
“Well then, today is that day,” he added.
Do not dine with the family. The governess takes her meals alone or with other household servants.
“Excellent. Come along, Miss Downing. Now that things have returned to normal, the household will wish to welcome you,” Bramstone Nightingale said when the carriage stopped in front of 11 Crabbett Close minutes later.
They all climbed from the carriage again and headed into the house. Eliza found a woman she had yet to meet waiting for them. Her bags were placed neatly beside the stairs.
“I am Miss Bud, but everyone calls me Bud. Please comein, Miss Downing. You must be quite worn out after the chaos. I am the housekeeper, and before that, cook, but we’ve just employed Mr. Dumple, who is turning out well. I’m so pleased you were able to help get Mungo back. He’s gruff but important to us.”
Short with her hair pulled back in a tight bun, Bud appeared to be like every housekeeper Eliza had met—efficient.
“Agreed,” Bramstone said. “Settle Miss Downing in, Bud, and then she can come and meet the rest of the family. Is my wife about?”
“She has taken the children out again, Mr. Nightingale. They are knitting with Mr. Greedy.”
“We are not a traditional household,” Miss Bud—or just Bud—said, noting the surprise on Eliza’s face. “As you’ve probably already come to understand. There is a lot of noise, plenty of laughter, and you’ll not find a better place to work, Miss Downing.”
“My name is Eliza.”
“I have bakery treats, Bud. If you will bring the tea, we shall eat a lot of sugar and try to recover from our torrid outing,” Alexander Nightingale said from behind the housekeeper.
“Yes, I can see how hard this was on you,” Mr. Fraser said, following him through the door.
