Page 1

One

Yorkshire, 1817

How often could a respectable young lady be dismissed from her situation? For a common servant girl, perhaps never. But for Miss Clara Hatfield, no less than five of those occurrences had taken place in the course of a mere seven weeks.

This wasn’t a surprise, for she, as a gentleman’s daughter, had precisely no experience in the foreign world of service. Despite this, she was determined to make a place for herself—if only for Mother’s sake.

And of course her own.

Which was why—at this precise moment—she bit her tongue so fiercely she feared she might draw blood. It really was the only way she’d found to keep her words at bay. Especially when sitting before upstart housekeepers like Mrs. Wintle of Bellthorne Hall. The housekeeper’s room was undersized, windowless, drab, and overall lifeless.

Mrs. Wintle could be described in the same manner—apart from windowless. She’d been staring down at Clara’s character reference in silence for the last few moments with a rather uninspired expression.

Granted, the character was uninspiring. Pathetic, really.

“Clara Hunt lodged at The Red Hound, paid what she owed, and dressed my hair for a town assembly. She is also capable of tending to fires when necessary.”

Truly, truly pathetic. Clara would not even hire herself under such pitiful reference. But Mrs. Radcliffe, the innkeeper’s wife, had done her best. When Clara had stayed at the inn, she’d begged to be taught the basics of keeping a house. After being dismissed from three small homes as a maid-of-all-work, she believed it overdue.

Mrs. Radcliffe had been kind enough to acquiesce, and with very few questions as to why Clara was entirely inept. In the end, Clara had left the inn with a reference no one else had bestowed upon her and with a small degree of knowledge she had not otherwise possessed.

Knowledge, being the most important word. For she had not shifted that knowledge to skill quite yet.

If only this housekeeper would give her a chance.

“So,” Mrs. Wintle finally began, “Miss Clara...Hunt.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Hunt. Mother’s family name. Clara had thought it safer to assume an alternate moniker once she stole away from home in the dead of night to escape a life she was threatened with—to find the life she’d been promised since childhood.

Finding that pledged living had come with more difficulty than expected. But at least having a pseudonym meant less risk of being discovered, less risk of a scandal, and less risk to her and Mother’s livelihood.

“Is this all you have to offer?” Mrs. Wintle asked, lowering the parchment onto the worn wood of her small desk.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Clara’s instinct was to raise her chin and squarely meet Mrs. Wintle’s judgmental, arrogant eye. But she forced her gaze to lower as she humbly tucked in her chin.

Seven weeks had passed by with her in service, and she still found it difficult to behave this way. She did not think herself above another. But she was raised to have pride in herself as a respectable female.

Such pride was certainly not advisable in a maid, though. She’d learned that when she’d been dismissed from her third place of work.

“With only one character reference and as short as this,” Mrs. Wintle continued, her wide, grey eyes staring across at Clara like a haughty owl, “I’m sure you understand how impossible it would be for us to hire you.”

Clara lowered her head farther, hiding a grimace. “Yes, ma’am. But I assure you, you will not regret it.”

She could not assure of that in the slightest, especially since each of her employers had regretted bringing Clara on their staff. But Clara was desperate.

She had only a few coins left to her name—the remainder of what she’d brought with her after leaving Cliveley Park already diminished due to the letters she sent to a handful of solicitors in London and Bath. She needed what little she had left to keep from becoming truly destitute—which would mean resorting to the workhouse.

“I...I need the work, ma’am,” she said softly, tamping down her fine accent as best she could. “To survive the winter...ma’am.”

She’d nearly forgotten the term of respect altogether, then. That was what had gotten her dismissed from her fifth place of work. Well, that and burning an entire dinner after lying about her ability to cook.

They’d thrown out Clara and the venison at the same time.

“Many young men and women need work at this time of year, Miss Hunt,” Mrs. Wintle replied unsympathetically. “But they have more references.”