Mrs. Ashby stepped neatly into the empty space he left behind. Her faintly powdery perfume drifted between us. Her expression remained precisely as it had been since my arrival. Polite, impersonal, and cool enough to chill my bones.
“I’ve had your rooms prepared, Your Grace,” she said, her voice precise as a pin. “Nelly will attend you until you’ve selected a permanent maid.”
Her tone did not suggest she believed I would ever be capable of doing so.
“I was told you had none to bring with you,” she added, her lips tightening as though the very thought of my impoverished circumstances was aesthetically displeasing.
“Yes,” I said softly, feeling the heat of embarrassment touch my cheeks. “That’s correct. Thank you, Mrs. Ashby.”
She inclined her head with mechanical precision, a practiced motion that suggested her respect belonged strictly to the title and not the woman who held it.
“Come, then. You’ll want to meet the rest of the staff.”
Nearly an hour passed in a blur of names and nods, and stiff, measuring glances.
Mr. Hollis, the butler, tall and carved from patience. A fleet of footmen, whose eyes slid away quickly when I met them. The cook, Mrs. Griggs, who bowed curtly and muttered something unintelligible about preferences andschedules. An army of scullery maids. The stable boy. And even the garden hands.
All polite smiles and guarded eyes. I couldn’t decide if they were merely cautious of their new mistress or if there was something else lurking beneath their courtesy.
At last, Mrs. Ashby dismissed them and gestured toward a young woman lingering near the staircase, a silver tray clutched in her hands. The hint of cloying tea wafted from the porcelain kettle, perfectly arranged on the platter with a dish of fresh fruit and tiny sandwiches cut into perfect triangles.
“This is Nelly Hart. She’ll see you to your chamber.”
Nelly curtsied quickly, her head bowed. She was a slight thing, fair and soft-featured, with mousy brown hair and eyes the color of the sea.
The housekeeper gave an effortless curtsy before leaving me alone with the girl. I stepped toward her, smiling.
“Have you worked here long, Nelly?” I asked as we began to ascend the stairs together, my hand trailing the smooth banister.
She looked over her shoulder at me, her smile small but sincere. “Just over a year, Your Grace.”
“And do you enjoy it here?”
We reached a landing lined with portraits—stern men in black coats, pale women draped in pearls, each pair of painted eyes seeming to follow us down the corridor. The sconces along the wall sputtered, casting the faces in an uneasy glow.
Nelly hesitated before answering. “His Grace is a very kind man.”
“He is,” I agreed quietly, my lips turning up in a smile.
“I don’t know him well though,” she added quietly.
She said nothing more as we stopped at a door near the end of the hall. Nelly pushed it open, stepping aside for me to enter.
The room was… beautiful.
High ceilings arched above a canopied bed dressed in ivory lace. A fire glowed softly in the hearth, filling the chamber with golden warmth. Heavy velvet curtains framed tall windows, and the air was thick with the faint perfume of roses.
I turned slowly in a circle, my fingers brushing the ornate mahogany furniture.
Then my gaze fell upon a brass vase on the mantel, brimming with freshly cut crimson roses, their petals glistening as if wet with dew.
I moved toward them without thinking, my hand rising of its own accord. The petals were soft beneath my fingers, cool and slick.
A droplet slid down my fingertip, red against my skin.
I blinked, heart lurching, but when I looked again,it was only water.
Only water.
