Maid of Oaklands Manor

by Terri Nixon

Genres: Romance; Historical Romance

Synopsis

England, 1912 is a place of rigid rules. A chance meeting between scullery maid Lizzy Parker and heiress Evie Creswell is about to break them all . . .

Their meeting leads to more than an enduring friendship and a new job for Lizzy - it draws her into a world of privilege and intrigue and delivers her into the loving arms of a killer.

Meeting the handsome but mysterious Jack Carlisle, Lizzy begins to fall for him despite rumours he had been involved in the death of Evie's father. As she becomes further embroiled in the dangerous life that Carlisle lives, she must decide if he can be trusted with the life of a close friend, and, ultimately, if he is worth the risk to her own . . .

Perfect for fans of Nadine Dorries, Dilly Court and Annie Murray.

The story continues in The Roses of Flanders Field, out now!

'This is the kind of novel that makes you look forward to bedtime so you can read some more - an epic true romance story' - Historical Novel Society

*Shortlisted for RNA Best Historical Novel 2013*

Release date: July 4, 2013

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 432

Sample

I wasn’t always Lizzy. A name may seem an insignificant detail in the tumult of all that was to come, but the change neatly separated the old life from the new and so Lizzy I became, in the sweep of a pen and in the fall of a word from a stranger’s lips.

For now though I was still Mary, tired and terrified, and trying to ignore the mounting waves of anxiety that had begun in earnest the moment my feet had touched the platform. I stared at the huge house in the distance and let out a long, shaky breath; this would be my first taste of domestic service beyond helping to bathe my baby brothers, and as if that wasn’t enough to bring on the collywobbles I’d be working for the Creswells who, to hear my mother talk, were Cheshire royalty.

Memories of her own service in this very house had been shared often, and with a mixture of fondness and remembered trepidation. It was all too easy to fall foul of the strict rules, she’d said, but reassured me that busy hands and a firmly closed mouth would see me through the most difficult days.

The train had tipped me out three miles down the road at Breckenhall, and my first glimpse of Oaklands Manor was coloured by grumpiness and exhaustion, but as I drew closer I stopped noticing how my feet hurt inside their tight new shoes, how the handle of Ma’s worn leather case cut into my palms, and how the sweat trickled uncomfortably between my shoulder blades despite the coolness of the spring day.

For all its forbidding size the house was beautiful, although it looked as though it might take me another week to reach it up the long, straight avenue that stretched from the road to the front door. Turrets at either end and balconies dotted along the upper two storeys of the Manor broke up what might otherwise have been a rather forbidding appearance, and made it look a little bit like something in a story book. My younger sister Emily would have fallen in love with it immediately, just for that.

To either side of me, glimpsed through the trees that gave the house its name, lay immaculately tended lawns, at least two sizeable ponds, and a summer house that looked big enough to house me, my mother, Emily and the twins comfortably.

At last I reached the end of the avenue where it curved away in two directions, sweeping around in a carriage drive outside the huge front door. I stared at that door, pretending for a moment that Oaklands was mine. Inside I would be greeted with deference, escorted to a light, airy suite of rooms, and then left alone in my private bathroom to soak away the grime of my long journey from the West Country.

Instead I sighed, and turned to follow a narrow path that branched off the main thoroughfare and led around the side of the house. The high wooden gate swung open without any squeaking or creaking, and clicked quietly shut behind me, leaving me standing inside a large, walled garden.

After the modest home in which I’d grown up, with its lovingly tended but tiny vegetable patch and its closely planted gooseberry and blackcurrant bushes, stepping into this garden felt like stepping into another world. Even this early in the year the beds were bursting with green life, and they stretched so far into the distance they might have gone on for ever.

But I didn’t want to be marked down as late on my first day, so I pushed aside the temptation to walk down through the rows of budding plants and looked instead for the entrance to the servants’ hall. I rounded the corner of the house, expecting to see another neat, straight wall, hopefully with a clearly visible door where I would go to present myself for work. Instead I saw a higgledy-piggledy collection of outhouses and sheds, jutting walls and recesses and several doors of varying sizes, any of which might have been the right one. Or the wrong one.

I stopped in my tracks, searching my memory for some help from all the hours Ma had spent instructing me about etiquette, and in particular the importance of using the correct entrances, but finding none.

Muffled voices from the largest of the outbuildings came as a relief. Crossing the small courtyard I began framing a question in my head so that my voice would come out clearly, and with a confidence I certainly didn’t feel. I pushed open the door and froze; my eyes had adjusted far too quickly for comfort and the polite request for assistance died before it reached my lips.

The two people inside the outhouse said nothing either. The man simply removed his hands from inside the young woman’s underthings and the woman stood up straight, levering herself off the wall with her elbows and letting her apron and skirts fall back into place.

My mouth was open, but one glance at the narrow face of the young woman was enough to snatch away any urge to speak; she was too far away for me to see her eyes in the gloom, but her jaw was set and her mouth was a thin straight line as she pushed her hair back up under her cap with a single sharp, snapping motion.

I winced, thinking, Idiot, you’ve managed to make an enemy before you even set foot in the house.

Uttering something intended as an apology but which was, in reality, just a wordless mumble, I backed out and waited for my heartbeat to return to normal before making my way back across the yard to the main building. Late or not, there was nothing on earth that would persuade me to go back in there to ask directions. I’d just have to find my own way.

 

‘Right, well, you’ll not answer to “Mary” here,’ the housekeeper told me a short time later. ‘The head housemaid is named Mary so we’ll need to find another name for you.’

Mrs Cavendish had a strong Scottish accent, which made some of her words hard to understand, but her voice was kind enough, although her eyes missed nothing as they swept over me. ‘What’s your middle name?’

‘Elizabeth.’ It was all I could do not to bob a curtsey.

‘Lizzy then,’ she said, noting it down. ‘Aye, that’ll do fine.’

For seventeen years I’d been Mary Elizabeth Parker, and suddenly I was just Lizzy; it felt as if a part of me had been neatly snicked off – quickly enough so it didn’t really hurt, but nevertheless changing the shape of who I was. I turned the new name over in my mind; it was just one more thing to get used to among countless others.

Mrs Cavendish began to outline my basic duties while she examined my hair, fingernails and general appearance. I tried to stand still under the scrutiny, but the bottom of my right foot suddenly began to itch like the devil, and my face seemed to have taken on the task of trying to soothe it from a distance. I could feel my nose wrinkling and my eyebrows dancing, and then my lips twisted inwards until Mrs Cavendish stopped talking and sighed.

‘If you’ve a problem about your person, girl, please see to it. I canna expect you to take in what I’m saying with your face all busy like that.’

Gratefully I eased off my shoe and raked my itching foot down my left shin, for once glad of the rough woollen stockings. The relief must have shown on my face because Mrs Cavendish’s own mouth flickered as she tried, unsuccessfully, to hide a smile.

She planted her fists on to her broad hips. ‘Well, Lizzy, you’re neat and clean enough, I suppose, aside from that sooty smudge on your cheek. You’ll meet everyone at supper, but for now you may go and change into your uniform, and then we’ll have a wee chat about what’s expected of you.’

The room into which Mrs Cavendish ushered me a few minutes later was at the very top of the house, and she was wheezing by the time she threw open the door at the end of a narrow corridor. ‘There you go, lass,’ she said. ‘Now, be quick with your changing, you’ve a lot of instruction to take note of. This is your first time in service, aye?’

‘Yes, Mrs Cavendish.’ This time I actually did nod my head more than was necessary, turning it into a sort of almost-bow.

She affected not to notice. ‘You’ve some clothes on the foot of your bed there. Change into the plain dress for supper and make sure your hair is tucked away. All of it, mind. And wash that smudge off your face. Come down to the kitchens as soon as you’ve done.’

A moment later I was, for the first time I could remember, alone in my own room. I turned around slowly, savouring the moment, taking in the tall wardrobe, the narrow beds, the wooden floor peeking through the thin, worn rug, the cracked jug and basin on the dresser. And, most of all, the silence.

I had craved privacy for so long it seemed barely possible that now I was going to be able to enjoy it, every night, away from the meddling fingers of Emily and the twins… then it registered: beds. Plural. I peered more closely at a small table in the corner, and this time took in the photograph of a middle-aged couple in a tarnished silver frame, the hairbrush and comb set, and the jumbled collection of hairpins. A horrible thought flashed into my head: what if this other bed belonged to the girl I’d seen in the outhouse?

‘Bugger,’ I said softly, and despite my trepidation it sounded funny so I said it again, louder. ‘Bugger, bugger, bugger!’

‘I can see you’re going to be one to keep an eye on.’

Mortified, I whirled round to see a young woman in the doorway. She was perhaps twenty years old, and dressed in clothes much like those that lay folded at the foot of my bed. And she wasn’t, thankfully, the girl from the outhouse. This girl had a rounder, far more pleasant face, and seemed friendly enough despite her words. Her accent was hard to place, but my mother had a friend who originally hailed from Liverpool and the light, musical way she spoke was similar.

She held a small laundry basket perched on one hip and was watching me as if she thought I might add something interesting, but all I could do was blush and try frantically to think of something to say. No words came, so I heeded Ma’s advice and kept quiet.

The newcomer moved into the room and dumped the contents of the basket on her bed. ‘You’re the new girl then,’ she said, rather unnecessarily. ‘Mary,’ she added.

Surprised she knew my name, I just nodded.

‘And you are…’ She let it tail off, her eyebrows raised.

For a moment I floundered, then I realised: she was Mary, the housemaid Mrs Cavendish had mentioned.

‘I’m, um, Lizzy Parker.’

‘You don’t sound very sure,’ Mary said. ‘Are you or aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’ I managed to sound certain this time, and in seeking to convince Mary I began to accept the change myself.

She began folding the clothing she had tipped on to the bed, and I glanced at my own new uniform, wishing she would hurry up and go. I was used to undressing in front of my sister, of course, but this was a total stranger, and one who was my superior in the house; the thought of removing my travelling clothes and revealing anything of myself in front of her made my belly shrivel.

Finally she shook her head. ‘You can’t be precious here, love.’ She didn’t sound unkind, more amused, but still I felt a flush heat my cheeks.

‘It’s not that,’ I said. ‘It’s just, well…’

‘Oh, go on then,’ Mary said, and smiled. ‘I’ll leave y’alone just this once, I’ve got to stop into Miss Peters’s room anyway. But mind, you might be glad of a bit of help when it comes to lacing yourself up and putting all your hair out o’ the sight of Eagle-eyes Cavendish.’

When the door had closed behind her I turned again to the neat pile of clothing awaiting my attention. There seemed an awful lot of layers for one person; yards and yards of material, and I would be expected to pay for it out of my wages whether I wanted it or not. Which I didn’t.

Some ten minutes later I turned and faced the mirror with my eyes screwed shut, and then opened them to get the full effect. I shut them again immediately, but the image still danced on the inside of my eyelids: short, skinny girl, clothes too big, appalling mess.

I shuddered, then cracked open one eye and had another look. Well, yes, it was undeniably bad, but maybe not as bad as I’d first thought: a tweak of the dress smoothed out a couple of lumps and bumps, and a firm hand either side of the apron pulled it into place so it fell more or less neat down my front. I nudged the discarded corset further under my bed with my foot.

Then came the difficult part. I studied the cap for a moment, and then my hair. The two didn’t seem likely to reach an amicable agreement, so I seized a handful of the dark curls that had been the bane of my mother’s life – now I knew why – and twisted them around my fingers, then piled the whole lot as close to the top of my head as I could manage. A few experimental jabs with hairpins, and a quick, sweeping movement with the cap, and it was done. It even felt quite safe, as if everything was actually going to stay in place.

Halfway down the stairs I realised I’d been optimistic in that regard, but as long as I didn’t sneeze, all would be well. By the time I reached the lower hallway I had revised my opinion downwards still further, and was trying not to make any sudden moves with my head. A sound on the stairs made me turn, hand atop my cap to keep it in place, and I saw Mary, a broad grin on her face.

‘Do wi’ another pair of hands now, could we?’ Before I had chance to reply, she’d put down her basket and whipped the cap off my head.

Immediately everything fell to pieces and she got busy, gathering it all up with firm, practised fingers. ‘Oov go’ uff luh heh.’

‘Pardon?’

She took the hairpins from her mouth. ‘You’ve got lovely hair,’ she repeated, as her hands worked deftly to pile it all up again. ‘It’ll be devilish difficult to keep it neat though, if you don’t pin it proper. I’ll do it for now, and later on I’ll show you how to fix it y’self.’

‘You’re really kind,’ I mumbled, feeling bad about my earlier attitude. In fact I was glad I’d be sharing with her; it seemed I would need more help than I’d realised.

‘Norra a local lass then?’ Mary asked as she replaced my cap and snugged it down tight.

‘No, I’m from Plymouth, I’ve never been as far up as Cheshire before.’

‘And what do you think?’

‘It’s very…’ I struggled for the word but could only find ‘empty’.

Mary laughed. ‘Thought you’d be used to that, coming from the West Country.’ She gave me a gentle push in the direction of the kitchen. ‘Go on then, Lizzy Parker. Lesson number one: it doesn’t do to keep the Cavendish waiting.’

 

Lesson number one turned out to be the first of a seemingly impossible number of them. Mrs Cavendish sat me down at the big wooden table in the servants’ hall and began my instruction, or ‘wee chat’ as she’d called it. Names and their associated positions within the household whizzed past my ears, some of them taking hold but often followed by the words: ‘And this is the most important thing.’ This, of course, immediately made me forget what had gone before, and try to concentrate on the next part. Which was in turn followed by something still more vital.

‘And if you should see Lady Creswell or any of the family in the course of your duties, which y’should not if you’re where y’ought to be, you’re not to be noticed,’ she said. I blinked. Ma had said I’d be ‘invisible’ while I worked at Oaklands, but I didn’t think I’d actually have to try and shrink into the walls.

Before I could ask Mrs Cavendish to clarify this she had continued: ‘And there’s no followers allowed.’

‘Followers? You mean…’

‘Ye ken very well what I mean, young lady. You’re a comely enough lass, and likely to attract attention for all you’re just skin and bone. But if you’re seen fraternising with any member of the opposite sex, or, God forbid, found with a visitor in your room, you will leave this house and never return. Is that quite clear?’

Images of a narrow-faced woman and a smirking man in a nearby outhouse mocked everything she had said, but I learned fast. ‘Yes, Mrs Cavendish.’

‘Right, well, that’ll do for now. I can see your head’s fair fizzing with everything I’ve told you. And remember, if you’re not sure of anything, don’t just guess, ask someone. Far better to be thought simple than wilful.’

It occurred to me there was much my mother hadn’t warned me about. Although I knew she’d done her best to prepare me for this position, her own time in service had been long ago and there would have been many changes in the intervening years. Still, her excellent references had led to my being here, and I must learn to make the most of it.

‘It’s time to lay the table for tea,’ Mrs Cavendish said. She followed my surprised glance at the large clock on the mantel. ‘Aye, we have it early so’s to leave time for preparing the meal for upstairs. We’ll be clearing away by four-thirty, but not unless we get a shake on and get started. Come on, now. After supper you’ll be helping Ruth in the kitchen.’ She looked at the clock again and scowled. ‘That’s if she ever shows up. She’s sailing close to the wind, that one.’

The housekeeper shut her mouth quickly and I gathered she shouldn’t have spoken her displeasure aloud, but it made me feel a bit better to know there was someone at least as visible as me in the firing line.

 

It was after midnight by the time I crawled into my bed that night, and as I slid between the sheets I relished the feel of cool cotton against my hot and swollen feet. My hands were raw and my head thumped with each beat of my pulse. Through heavy eyes I watched Mary winding the alarm clock set for six o’clock, and tried not to count the hours between in case I should suddenly realise there weren’t enough.

‘You’d generally be finished well before now,’ she said kindly. ‘It’s just bad luck that bl – that poor Ruth wasn’t feelin’ well, you’d not normally have to cover for her.’

I nodded, and opened my mouth to speak but instead yawned wide enough to unhinge my jaw. Mary smiled and climbed into her bed, checking the clock one last time before bidding me goodnight.

‘G’night,’ I murmured, and closed my eyes.

 

When I opened them again it was with a sigh of relief to see I was back in Plymouth, prodding at the unmoving back of my gently snoring sister to get her to turn over and be quiet. Eventually she snuffled and shifted, and the room fell blissfully silent again. I lay in the dark, thinking ahead to the coming day and the simple pleasures it would bring; peace and quiet to do some letter-writing in the morning, and a long walk up across Dartmoor, maybe a picnic with Emily and the twins.

The boys could play on the rock at Yelverton, that huge lump of granite and slate stone that always swarmed with children eager to show off their climbing skills; Adie and Albert were getting braver every time we went there, and Emily and I would stand together, holding hands and trying not to squeeze each other’s fingers too tightly with fear as we watched our four-year-old brothers fiercely compete.

I might make time to visit Father’s grave too, and tell him which of the spring flowers had bloomed early this year; he had always been interested in moorland flora, had told me it was because he spent so much of his time underground that it helped him to think of all the colour and the life going on above his head while he worked.

All in all my day would be full, fresh and rewarding, and bring pleasure to all of us in one way or another. I smiled in the darkness and closed my eyes…

Within seconds they were open again. Mary snapped off the harsh jangling of the clock and rubbed her hands over her face. ‘Time to get going, Lizzy.’

I rose on to my elbows, coming back to reality with a hollow sense of dread. The dream fell away from me in wispy fragments far too quickly but it was best not to try and hold on to the bright, comforting pieces that remained; they would only serve to contrast with my new life all the more horribly.

There was no time for Mary to teach me the rudiments of securing my hair, so once more she fixed it for me herself and made sure I arrived in the kitchens promptly, half an hour after my first full day had begun.

My first job was to stoke the fire in the range for hot water. That wasn’t too bad since the cinders were still hot, but to my dismay I found the next task was emptying the female servants’ chamber pots, and then cleaning them. The smell was rank and stale, and I gagged the first couple of times, although after that I learned to hold my breath until I’d finished scrubbing the china with my vinegar-soaked rag. When all that was done I turned my attention to drawing water in preparation for scrubbing the pantry.

‘You’d better ’ave kept your bleedin’ mouth shut!’

I jumped and turned around, knowing already who I’d see. So this must be the elusive Ruth. Just my luck she had turned out to be the kitchen maid.

‘I’ve said nothing to anyone,’ I said, turning back to my bucket to hide the fear I was certain must have shown in my face – I could feel my heart speeding up uncomfortably with it.

‘Good thing too. What’s your name?’

‘Lizzy Parker.’

‘Oh, yeah, the new scullery maid. You sound funny, where you from?’

‘Plymouth.’ Just saying the name made me shake with a new surge of homesickness.

‘Bloody hell, what are you doing all the way up here? Don’t they want you down there no more?’

I faced her again, hoping to draw on my family connection to the house. ‘My mother worked here a long time ago. Upstairs.’

But Ruth wasn’t listening; she glanced over her shoulder into the kitchen. ‘Right, Miss Lizzy Nosy Parker, listen here. I’m Ruth Wilkins. I answer to Mrs Hannah the cook, and you answer to me. Understand?’

I flinched as her sharp finger poked me hard in the shoulder, but managed to keep my voice calm. ‘Yes.’

‘Good. I’m not going to be kitchen maid for long, got higher plans. So if you plays your cards right you might be in with a chance at my job eventually.’

‘What plans have you got?’ Not that I cared, but I already knew I was going to be deeply relieved when this girl moved on, so the sooner the better.

‘Never you mind. Just remember you need to keep me on your side. And if you happen to see something you didn’t ought to ’ave seen, you keep it to yourself. You won’t get no thanks, nor make no friends, being a tattle-tale.’

We both knew I had already seen enough to get her dismissed, and I hadn’t ‘tattled’ yet. I just gave a small nod and picked my full bucket out of the sink, hoping my trembling hands weren’t too obvious.

Ruth began preparing early-morning tea for the upper servants, and now and again I caught her looking over as if assessing the effect of her words on me. Keep your mouth closed, and your hands busy, and you’ll stay out of trouble, Ma had said. It was good advice; I didn’t trust Ruth Wilkins one little bit.

After dinner I found myself with what I already recognised as a rare moment of peace. The morning had passed in a blur of pots and pans and morning prayers, and to my relief Ruth had vanished as soon as the meal was over. She’d run me ragged all morning, and always with the sort of smile on her face that wasn’t really like a smile at all.

Craving a breath of fresh air I stepped outside into the yard, and as I closed the door behind me I heard voices coming from around the corner. One of them I recognised immediately; the flat, Cockney drawl had been haranguing me constantly for the past six hours. The other must belong to the man she’d been with in the outhouse yesterday. He would probably be one of the upper servants or a driver.

Whoever and whatever he was, he wasn’t happy about something, and his voice had dropped to little more than a hiss. ‘It’s only a matter of months, Ruth. You’d better get yourself up that ladder and in full view of those that matter.’

‘I can’t help it. You keep me out all hours, then I get in trouble and no one trusts me!’

‘All right then, from now on until you’re where you need to be, we lay off.’

Ruth’s tone turned pleading. ‘What, altogether? C’mon, Frank, we don’t ’ave to go that far.’

‘We do if you’re going to get out of that kitchen and up those stairs. Besides, we can’t risk anything with that new girl skulking about.’

‘Don’t pay the scullion no mind, I’ve got her where I can keep an eye on her, she won’t dare cross me.’

My hand clenched and I winced as the chapped skin tightened over my knuckles. The fact that Ruth was probably right did nothing to lessen the anger I felt at her words.

She was speaking again. ‘Well, what about one last time then?’ A pause, then her voice took on a low, singsong tone. ‘Oh, Frankie, you know you want what I’ve got ’ere for you.’

I felt my face flame as I realised what was going on, again, just a few feet away – this time out in the open, in the herb garden. What must it be like to have such feelings for someone that you were prepared to take that kind of risk? In all my seventeen years I had never taken so much as a strong fancy to anyone, and yet here was Ruth throwing herself at this unknown man, shamelessly begging him to continue with what they had been doing yesterday.

The rule about followers clearly held no fear for these two or else they must be confident everyone else was occupied, but with their attitude they were sure to get caught eventually and then Ruth would be dismissed. It would almost be worth risking her wrath just to ensure that happened. I went back into the house where, lost in this pleasant thought, I bumped into Mary coming out of the scullery.

Instantly my mouth dropped open, about to tell her what I’d seen and heard, but I clamped it shut again. Mary seemed nice, but I didn’t know her well enough yet to trust that she wouldn’t go straight to Ruth and warn her she’d been overheard.

‘What on earth happened?’ she said. ‘You look like you’ve lost a penny and found sixpence!’

I shook my head. ‘It’s nothing,’ I said. ‘Only relieved to have got the morning out of the way without breaking anything.’

‘Hmm.’ She frowned, clearly not believing a word of it. She seemed about to say more, but time and task were at odds and we both hurried back to our stations to begin the afternoon’s work.

The brief meeting gave me much to think about, though, and I was glad I hadn’t blurted out my discovery of Ruth’s indiscretions. As I scrubbed the pots from our own dinner, I watched the girl in question working angelically alongside Mrs Hannah, as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, and pondered the identity of her secret lover. He couldn’t be anyone special to be going after Ruth Wilkins, I decided; she wasn’t a likeable sort of person at all, even if she was enviably good at her job.

Conversation between the others had been carrying on in a mostly undecipherable but comforting hum. I caught the odd word, now and again a laugh, or an exclamation of dismay when something broke or clattered to the stone floor, but mostly it was calm background noise as my mind wandered around the unfamiliar corners of my new environment.

Then the noise stopped, all at once, and I looked up to see why. A tall, broadly built older gentleman in a very smart suit had strolled in, with such an air of command about him that I’d have thought Lord Henry Creswell himself had come to visit if I hadn’t known he’d died long ago, during the war.

‘Mr Dodsworth,’ Mrs Cavendish said, nodding to him. ‘Will Mr Carlisle be joining Her Ladyship for dinner again?’

‘He will.’ The butler took off his hat and laid it on the table, and Mrs Cavendish immediately removed it and hung it on the rack by the door. It had the feel of an old routine; Mr Dodsworth didn’t even blink. I thought back to Mrs Cavendish’s instructions and remembered these two were equal in status, which would explain why she wasn’t suddenly the hardest-working person in the room, as everyone else was trying to be.

Mrs Cavendish sniffed. ‘Why Her Ladyship insists on entertaining a man of such questionable morals, I couldn’t say.’

‘He’s a perfectly respectable gentleman, and a war hero,’ Mr Dodsworth protested mildly, and again I had the feeling they’d been through this before. I smiled as I turned back to my work, keeping their conversation on the top level of the other noises; it couldn’t hurt to learn as much as possible about the family for whom I was working, and their friends and acquaintances.

This Mr Carlisle, for example; I couldn’t immediately work out his relationship to the household, but my initial assumption that he was somehow connected romantically to Lady Creswell was soon dispelled.

‘Will he be bringing a lady friend this time?’ Mrs Cavendish wanted to know.

‘Not that I’m aware,’ Mr Dodsworth said. ‘Mr Carlisle is staying a few days, as usual, and there have been no requests to have a maid on hand, or another room prepared.’

‘Well, why couldn’t Her Ladyship have told me about him at the meeting this morning?’ Mrs Cavendish grumbled.

I thought the cook should be the one who was more inconvenienced, and said so, very quietly, but Mrs Hannah only shrugged. ‘I always make sure there’s more than enough; Lady Creswell runs a prestigious house, and if it’s not Mr Carlisle popping in on an hour’s notice it’ll be someone else.’

Listening to the varying opinions of the kitchen staff, that began flying the minute Mr Dodsworth was called away, I deduced that Mr Carlisle was, by turns, a shy but friendly man, a secret womaniser, a popular, polite and extremely eligible bachelor and an unwelcome hanger-on. The one thing everyone seemed to agree on was that he had been a close friend of Lord Henry Creswell, now deceased, and that the two of them had made a striking if mismatched pair; Mr Carlisle was not, by those same accounts, a man born to the privileged life he now led.

Mrs Cavendish was of the firm opinion he was making a nuisance of himself with Her Ladyship, while Mrs Hannah pointed out that Lady Creswell could quite easily refuse him hospitality if she so chose, and that Mr Carlisle was almost family in any case. He sounded mysterious and exciting, and if he really were a war hero I would have loved to learn what he had done to earn the label.

Mary came into the kitchen in the midst of the discussion, and, still caught up in curiosity, I asked her what she thought, since she must have seen him often.

She dismissed the question immediately, with an uncharacteristic frown. ‘I have better things to do with my time than speculate about the comings and goings of house guests. And so do you,’ she added pointedly. I nodded. Mary was fast becoming my mentor in all things, and if she thought I should be quiet on a subject, then quiet I would be, although she was not usually so abrupt in her advice. I knew her mother had been unwell of late, though, so perhaps concern was shortening Mary’s patience. I’d have been the same.

Besides, there was little time to dwell on thoughts of the in. . .