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“I will help.”

Both sets of eyes turned to her.

Two

Revealing her fine handwriting was a risk all on its own. But it was one Clara was willing to make.

“You know how to write?” Harriet asked, eying Clara for the first time since entering the room.

“Yes,” Clara said. “I can help with the notices.”

“How do you know how to write?” Mrs. Wintle asked suspiciously.

But Clara was prepared. “I was taught as a child and have found ways to practice the skill often.”

That much was the truth. Mother and Father had always encouraged great penmanship, just like the rest of Society.

On top of that, when she’d begun her life as a maid, leaving Mother at Cliveley Park at the end of October, Clara’s first place of service had been as a companion to an elderly woman. She’d hired Clara solely because she could write beautifully, and the woman had an endless list of correspondence to respond to and couldn’t keep up with it on her own.

Clara had done fine enough until she had been dismissed for sleeping too late too often. In her defense, she’d never risen at five in the morning in all her life. The birds hadn’t even begun to chirp at that point.

Fortunately, she’d grown accustomed to rising early over the last few weeks, so that wouldn’t be an issue working here at Bellthorne.

If only she was given the chance.

“Will you allow me to show you?” Clara asked, hoping to win Mrs. Wintle over by showcasing her talent.

The housekeeper pursed her lips, then silently slid a sheet of paper, bottle of ink, and quill across the desk.

Clara copied a few lines from what she could see of the top notice, taking extra care before pulling back and handing the paper to Mrs. Wintle.

“I can continue with the whole notice if you’d like,” Clara said, though she knew she wouldn’t have to.

Harriet was looking more relieved by the second, and Mrs. Wintle was doing her best not to appear impressed. With a scrutinizing gaze, she stared at Clara again. “If you write so well, how have you not found work elsewhere?”

“Lack of references,” she replied smartly, then swiftly ducked her head and added, “ma’am.”

She bit her tongue again.

Mrs. Wintle picked up on her impertinence, her eyes turning icy.

Bellthorne Hall would be the perfect place to work. And when the time came for her to leave, she could finally receive a reputable character. She could be hired anywhere then. But would Mrs. Wintle give her the chance?

Clara wanted to glance at Harriet to see what she was thinking through all of this, but she dared not move—dared not breathe—until finally, Mrs. Wintle spoke.

“Very well,” she said rigidly. “If you are able to start now, you may have a position at Bellthorne Hall. You must complete the notices for each of the guests. Well over fifty. When finished, I will take you on as a temporary upper housemaid. Providing you light the fires and clean the rooms well enough, you will be kept on, but only for the duration of the house party. Understood?”

Clara nodded, breathless with relief. “Yes, ma’am.”

“If you move one toe out of line, or I see anything at all that is untoward, I shall not hesitate to dismiss you on the spot.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You will have no comfort or rest for the coming weeks, but you will be provided enough food to eat, a fair compensation, and a bed to sleep upon—providing you uphold your end of the bargain.”

Clara nodded in silence.

“This is Harriet, one of the upper housemaids,” Mrs. Wintle introduced, and Clara dared a glance at the maid, whose spattering of freckles became more apparent as she smiled in greeting.