Sally Longlane was vehemently shaking her head behind the housekeeper’s back, the footmen were wincing, the maidsstaring to the ceiling, and even the butler had closed his eyes in certain sufferance.
“No, no. Just thirsty, thank you. Governesses…talk so much, you know. All day. Just talking to their pupils.”
“Hmm. Well, you let me know if it worsens and I’ll knock up a tonic, I shall.”
“That’s most generous.”
“Nothing like a gargle with my snail syrup for clearing hoarseness.”
Amelia’s lips parted. Closed. Opened. “No, I’m quite sure there isn’t.”
After a satisfied nod, Mrs Dawkins introduced her to the rest of the servants, and they were all so welcoming, so joyful that someone was here to look after the ‘Sorrowful Miss Thornton’ that Amelia had never felt such a fraud.
The butler was the sole member of the household to stare down at her as though she were a pinned butterfly. “I am to escort you to the master and his ward as soon as you arrive, Miss…Jones.”
“Lawks,” cried Sally, “is Mister Cadwalader back from visiting his latest bit o’ fluff? That were a quicki–”
“Sally Longlane!” wailed the housekeeper. “I’ll have no gossip of our esteemed master.”
The rest of the crew nodded in reproach and Amelia winced – loyal servants were so much more difficult to question.
“Although,” continued the housekeeper with a tut, “thatwasa smidgeon quick. Perchance he’s bored and will stop gadding around soon.”
As the butler led Amelia up the servants’ stairs and onto the ground floor, he pointed a skeletal finger at the various rooms and Amelia feigned interest but not too much interest – though it did confirm the architect’s plans.
Study to the front, drawing room in the middle and dining room to the back, before they ascended a grand mahogany staircase, the banister so polished, Amelia could see her fingernails in it.
“You will be residing upon this first floor, Miss…Jones, opposite to Miss Thornton. Another bedroom here has been converted to the schoolroom.”
“That sounds perfect. And Mr Cadwalader’s quart–” He halted so abruptly she ran into the back of him. “Forgive me.”
The butler swivelled. “The master’s quarters are the second floor.”
“All of it?”
He stared down his long nose. “All of it.” Raised a haughty brow. “No one, and I repeatno one, is allowed there without his express permission.”
“Gosh,” she burbled. “It’s just such an impressive house. So…large.”
With a roll of eye, he turned, and she followed him down the corridor, catching a glimpse of an ornate ballroom through gilded double doors. She felt rather light-headed. It had only happened once before, when an elderly peer at a gambling hell had remarked on her likeness to the famed Butterfly Courtesan of a decade past.
The butler halted.
Amelia halted.
Heart pounding.
A door was thrust open.
“Miss…Jones, Sir.” And the butler withdrew.
Stepping forward into what looked to be the schoolroom, Amelia gulped as Mr Cadwalader turned, the tails of his burgundy coat swishing, fine blue eyes flashing and–
What was that?
For slouching beside the blond magnificence of Mr Cadwalader was…a crow. No, a witch. No, a…young girl? A young witch?
Black hair. Black eyes. A black crepe dress from the last century. Black jet jewellery. Black boots.
