Eliza let the curtains fall back into place, her curiosity further stoked. An ewer of clean water stood on the washstand. Lydia must have brought it up earlier. She washed her face and hands in the basin, braided her hair into a knotted plait, and went downstairs.
She was greeted by the sight of Lydia panfrying eggs in the simple, delft-blue kitchen, her curls tied back with a scrap of lace. Thick slices of bacon sat on the sideboard, alongside a crusty baguette. Lydia scoopedthe eggs from the cast-iron skillet and handed a plate to Eliza. “I wondered when you’d be getting up.”
“You found food? And coal for the cookstove?”
“We have chickens out back—three fat little hens and a rooster. Mr.Mason brought us the rest of the groceries and filled the coal scuttle.”
“Oh, that was generous.” Eliza piled food onto her plate, then followed Lydia to the trestle table in the corner, where a porcelain teapot steamed. She shook out a napkin and hungrily tucked into her eggs. “We’ll go to market later and get everything else we need. I’d have been up earlier to help cook if the storm hadn’t woken me last night.”
“Storm?” Lydia shook her head, curls bouncing. “I don’t recall any storm.”
“It was quite the banger. I’m surprised you slept through it.”
“Having your dreams again?”
“No, this wasn’t a dream, I’m sure of it.” Eliza took a sip of tea, the tang of Earl Grey sharp on her tongue. “There was a rider across the way—coming from the ruined mansion next door. He saw me standing at the window.”
Lydia shrugged her shoulders and stirred milk into her tea. “You always liked to ride Hercules at night. Oh ... that reminds me, we’ve a trap and horse in the stables. A handsome little Arab. I walked the property with Mr.Mason this morning. I met a few of the tenants. Things aren’t nearly as dire as I thought they’d be.”
Eliza pushed back a sudden twinge of jealousy. Lydia was four years younger—twenty-one to Eliza’s twenty-five—but no one would know it from the way she acted. She was ever taking charge.
There came a shrill whirring from the far wall. A clock with a peaked top, carved like a Swiss chalet, chimed eight times. A grotesque little red-eyed bird emerged, its beak on a hinge. It finally gave up its tired cuckooing and disappeared with a snap.
“That clock has got to go,” Lydia said.
“Well. I quite like it,” Eliza said with a crisp nod. “It can stay.”
They were beating rugs on the portico after a long morning of housecleaning when a young courier wobbled up the drive on a cycle. He dismounted, tipped his cap to Lydia, and turned to Eliza. The sunlight caught a strand of his sandy hair, turning it to pale gold. Eliza startled and took a step back.
It isn’t him,Liza.Not every fair-haired boy you meet is him.
“Are you Miss Sullivan?”
“I am.” Eliza clutched her apron to still the sudden tremor in her hands.
“I’ve brought a note from Miss Polly Whitby. She’s your neighbor.” The boy passed her a sealed envelope addressed with a feminine hand.
“How kind. Does she live in the big house next to us?” Eliza motioned in the direction of the fire-scarred manor.
The boy gave a nervous laugh. “No, miss. That’s the old Havenwood place. Miss Whitby lives on the other side of you. She’s the admiral’s daughter. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, she’s requested your answer while I wait.”
Eliza opened the envelope as Lydia peered over her shoulder. Inside, there was an invitation to afternoon tea and a pressed violet. It tumbled onto the flagstone pavement and the boy bent to retrieve it, handing it to Eliza with a shy smile.
“Thank you very much. What was your name, young sir?”
“I’m Nigel Phelps, miss. I’m always round the lane.”
“Please tell Miss Whitby we’d be delighted, Nigel.”
“I surely will.” He replaced his cap and climbed onto his cycle, wobbling back through the gates.
“Our first proper English tea, Lyddie,” Eliza said. “What shall we bring our hostess?”
Lydia’s mouth twisted. “Perhaps you should go alone. My name wasn’t on the envelope.”
“She likely doesn’t know about you, cher.”
“I suppose you’re right. Let’s finish these rugs, then we’ll go freshen up.”
