“I take it that if I do need something, I should not be coming to you,” Yvette said with a smirk. “I worry that if I ask for tea, you might spit in it.”
Mrs. Fletcher stiffened. “I would never do such a thing.”
“At least not on purpose, I am sure,” Yvette said with a wink. Mrs. Fletcher continued to look upon her coldly, and Yvette sighed. “Shall we discuss the elephant in the room? Or are you happier pretending it does not exist?”
“Elephant?” Mrs. Fletcher frowned.
“You don’t like me,” Yvette said. “And I would like to know why. If I have done something to offend you, I do apologize. Or I would, if I knew what it was.” She looked pointedly at Mrs. Fletcher.
“I do not know you,” she said simply. “So how can I not like you?”
“You tell me.”
Mrs. Fletcher looked at her plainly, a raised eyebrow in assessment. Yvette held that look, refusing to back down. She even folded her arms and cocked an eyebrow of her own.
“As you say…” Mrs. Fletcher scoffed and rolled her eyes. “I do not like the way you spoke to His Grace.”
Yvette blinked. “Truly?”
“Yes, truly,” Mrs. Fletcher said sharply. “You do not know what you are talking about. And even if you did, it is not your place to say anything. His Grace is a good man, he deserves respect, and you would do well to remember that.”
“I…” Yvette hesitated. “I’m sorry.”
“Are you?”
No, not at all. His Grace was unnecessarily rude and nothing I have seen so far suggests that he is a good man or deserving of respect. Not that you need to know this.
Yvette’s hesitation was short, but it was enough for Mrs. Fletcher to see through any lie that Yvette might have been willing to spin. Her upper lip curled, she rolled her eyes, and she turned and walked down the hallway.
“Come,” she said over her shoulder. “I have a lot to show you, far too much, and I will not waste time that ought to be put to better use.”
Yvette frowned after the housekeeper, wondering if she ought to explain herself better. It wasn’t that Yvette did not like His Grace; it was just that nothing she had seen so far gave her a reason for why she should. After all, wasn’t he responsible for Hugh’s situation? And how could he have an eight-year-old son whom he allowed to live on the street for all this time? And then to judge the poor boy for it!
That alone should be reason not to like him.
Of course, Yvette decided to keep this to herself… for now.
The next thirty minutes passed in tense silence as Mrs. Fletcher showed Yvette through the manor, making sure to highlight the specific rooms that she would need to become acquainted with, while explaining the staff’s schedules, as well as the Duke’s, and anything else that Yvette needed to know if she was to live here.
It was all pretty standard, with the only difficulty being remembering her way through the gigantic manor. Also, Yvette started to worry about what she was going to teach Hugh, because this wasn’t something that she had done before and she had no idea what was expected of her.
She might have thought to ask the Duke himself, but that was clearly not an option. And she might have thought to ask Mrs. Fletcher, but that was also not an option.
It looks like I’ll have to figure things out for myself and hope for the best. Lucky, I am rather good at that by now…
The last stop on the tour was the kitchen, and it was supposed to just be a quick stop so that Yvette could familiarize herself with the kitchen staff.
“And this is Ms. Ridgewell, the Head Cook.” Mrs. Fletcher stood in the doorway of the kitchen and indicated to who could only be Ms. Ridgewell.
“Call me Lucinda.” The Head Cook dusted her hands on her apron and crossed the room to greet Yvette. She wore a huge smile, perhaps the first that Yvette had seen since arriving. “And you must be the new governess… Yvette, was it?”
“That’s right.” Yvette took her by the hand. “How did you know?”
“These walls talk,” Lucinda chuckled. “A little too much sometimes, truth be told. No secrets in this place.”
Lucinda Ridgewell was younger than Yvette might have expected. She couldn’t have been older than thirty; her hair was strawberry blonde, her eyes were piercing green, and her chubby face was surely typical of most cooks. Most interesting was the clear bump hidden under her apron.
“I’m sorry to ask…” Yvette hesitated, not sure if she should continue. “But are you… you’re not…” Her eyes flicked to the bump.
