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“Yes, ma’am, but I⁠—”

“I cannot hire an upper housemaid based off of her ability to pay an innkeeper.”

“No, ma’am, but⁠—”

“Can you clean grates? Rise early? Empty slops and obey orders? Are you capable of cleaning bedchambers, behaving around those above you in station, manage guest rooms? Press gowns?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Clara said as stalwartly as possible.

She could do...some of those things.

“I am sorry, but you understand I cannot take your word for it.” Mrs. Wintle leaned back from her desk and made to stand. “With the upcoming house party, I need to know I can rely upon the help. I must ask you to take your leave now so I may see to the other women applying for work. Good day, Miss Hunt.”

Clara understood her decision. Working during a house party sounded grueling. She’d attended a few of them as a guest and could only imagine the amount of work involved by the servants to successfully manage such an event. But being at Bellthorne Hall, working under the esteemed—if not a tad eccentric—Lady Dalmeer would provide Clara with the income she needed to finally find Father’s solicitor. That, in turn, would allow her to find the portion Father settled for her before his death. The portion she had every right to obtain after she had turned one and twenty September last.

Working during the house party at Bellthorne was her last chance. There was no news of work anywhere else within miles, and she couldn’t pay Mrs. Radcliffe anymore for lodging. Short of sneaking into the odd barn at night and praying she didn’t freeze to death, she didn’t have many more options.

And she simply couldn’t resort to the depressing circumstances toiling at a workhouse would allot her.

Shivering at the mere thought of pointless labor and meager rations, Clara stood, facing Mrs. Wintle more directly. “Please, ma’am. Can you not extend a charitable action to someone desperately in need?”

Mrs. Wintle’s sharp eyes were on her in an instant. Clara had spoken far too eloquently. That would hardly extend her any favors.

“I need work, ma’am, or I’ll be out on the streets,” she amended, lowering her tone.

“Obtain more characters, and I will consider it,” Mrs. Wintle replied. “You seem well spoken with fine enough manners, which can be hard to come by these days. But I am not paid to run a charity. Good day, Miss Hunt.”

She spoke more firmly this time, extending the dismal reference back to Clara, who pocketed it. Clara recognized the tone of the housekeeper at once. It was the same her stepfather used on Mother when he was upset with her for being ill. The same Clara’s stepbrother, Algernon, used on Clara when she’d refused to agree to a union between herself and Algernon’s drunken friend, Percival.

Father and Mother had never spoken to her in such a way. Even still, Clara knew if she pressed Mrs. Wintle further, the housekeeper would be even more convinced to not hire her.

Forcing her tongue to remain quiet, she curtsied, then moved to the closed door, pushing images of the workhouse from her mind.

Just as she reached for the handle, however, the door swung open, and a harried-looking maid appeared with tears in her dark green eyes.

Clara jumped back to avoid being hit by the swinging door.

“Mrs. Wintle,” the maid breathed, her black hair pulled back in a tight bun, a handful of papers gripped between her fingers.

“Harriet,” Mrs. Wintle snapped, “what is the meaning of this?”

“The notices,” Harriet said, still breathless and unapologetic as she raised the parchment. “They’re all ruined, ma’am.”

Harriet dropped her stack of paper on Mrs. Wintle’s desk, and Clara eyed the sodden pages, ink bleeding across the parchment over stains of greasy yellow. They must be the written events for what the guests had to expect throughout the party. From what Clara could tell, there had to be at least fifty of them.

She remained silent, watching the scene unfold as Mrs. Wintle frowned. “What happened to them?” the housekeeper asked. “They were supposed to have been placed somewhere safe. The guests will need them come Monday.”

“They were left by the stairs,” Harriet explained. “James tripped with a bowlful of broth. We only managed to save the one. What are we to do, Mrs. Wintle? It’s too much to have them all written in so short a time, ma’am. Sarah’s no longer with us to help, and you both worked on them for weeks.”

“I know, Harriet,” Mrs. Wintle said brusquely. “I was there.” She shook her head. “There is nothing else to be done. I must begin anew.”

“But you’ve too much to do, ma’am. The linens, the deliveries, the table arrangements with her ladyship. Where’ll you find the time?”

Mrs. Wintle didn’t respond.

This was Clara’s cue.

She positioned her body in the same manner as Harriet’s—hands clasped in front of her, head slightly stooped forward, flitting eyes—then spoke.