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Mrs. Wintle continued. “She will show you where the temporary maids are being housed. Take the final bed in the room, settle your belongings, then return immediately to begin the notices. Understood?”

“Yes, Mrs. Wintle.”

“Off with you both.”

Clara and Harriet curtsied as one, then Clara followed the maid down the short corridor two doors away where a small room was situated that had once clearly been used for storage.

Wooden crates half-broken stacked high in one corner, while another corner housed stained rags. Dust and cobwebs framed the dirt-covered window at the back of the room, and four beds were smashed within the space with only a foot between each.

“Isn’t much,” Harriet said. “But at least the window closes. The temporary footmen’s room possesses a crack in the window that delivers a permanent draft. Your bed’ll be that one.”

She pointed to the one nearest the window—no doubt left unoccupied because it would be the coldest—but Clara didn’t mind. She’d been sleeping in a shared bed with random passersby at The Red Hound, so having her own would be far superior.

Even if it sagged in the middle and was also covered in dust.

“Will that be all right?” Harriet asked, lingering in the doorway like she wanted to ask Clara more.

“More than sufficient.”

Harriet tipped her head to the side. “You speak fine for being who you are. Just like you write.”

Clara deposited her small portmanteau atop her bed, then brushed off the dust from the flat, grey pillow. “My former mistresses required more eloquence than most.”

She’d had to concoct that lie from the beginning seven weeks before. As much as she’d attempted to speak more commonly, her tongue wouldn’t allow it.

“Where’d you work before?”

“Nowhere worth any mention.”

“And they required you to speak like that? I wouldn’t have lasted a day.”

“I nearly didn’t,” Clara said with a smile.

Harriet returned it but didn’t push for more information. She was far less skeptical than Mrs. Wintle, and Clara was glad of it.

“I best get back to my work now,” Harriet said, taking a step from the room. “Better not to keep Mrs. Wintle waiting for long if you can help it, either.”

“Thank you, Harriet.”

Harriet curtsied, then left Clara alone in the room to contemplate all that had occurred.

She’d never worked with anyone near her age before, even if Harriet appeared a few years younger. Clara had always been pushed and prodded by one elevated servant after another—whether elevated in age or opinion.

What would it be like to have a friend again? Heaven knew she needed a confidant after so long of being on her own. She hadn’t really had anyone on her side since Father died when she was fifteen, excepting Mother, of course.

At the thought of her, Clara opened her portmanteau and swiftly counted the sheets of parchment she had left.

Three. Only three.

Should she chance writing to Mother, let her know Clara was doing well? Or should Clara reserve all three pieces to write to three new solicitors?

She’d already written seven in the hopes that one of them had been Father’s solicitor—or that perhaps one of them might have information to help her.

Mother hadn’t been able to recall, and Algernon had kept any information he had to himself.

Typical despicable creature that he was. He’d do nothing to help her, for the moment Clara did find Father’s past solicitor, she would finally receive the portion settled on her before his death—the portion she hadn’t known existed until Mother, in her weakened state, had only remembered it upon Clara’s twenty-first birthday.

“Your father never liked to bother me with talk of business. But I do recall him mentioning you would receive a portion once you turned of age.”