Chapter OneNorthern England, 1828
The rumbling and creaking of the cart, and the bitter grumblings of the old man Rebecca had hired in the village to help her complete the journey, had long since faded. How long she stood there—feet firmly rooted in the frozen tracks of mud, the ice-cold northern wind whistling and cutting through her many layers of wool, eyes affixed on the sight beyond the daunting wrought-iron gates—was anyone’s guess.
It was only a house. A house like any other.
‘Unholy house,’ the old man had spat as he left, but to Rebecca it remained nothing more than another house she was to work in.
So why was passing the gates, walking up the barren drive and entering proving to be such a challenge? This was not the first house she had served, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. Why was this paragon of Jacobean English grandeur, sitting upon its isolated hill in the middle of the borderlands—imposing and dreary in the light of this cold grey September morning though it may be—suddenly filling Rebecca’s heart with dread and foreboding?
Stop behaving such a complete ninny, she thought as a shiver passed through her. You are cold, and tired. It’s only a house. A house with stories.
Yes, there were many stories about this house. Tales she knew well, having heard them whispered in many a drawing room or parlour in the late hours. Tales which were the only reason she’d been offered the position—of that she was almost entirely certain. Tales of vengeance and ghosts and disappearing earls—and, naturally, murder. Gothic tales worthy of a penny blood, by which she set no store. Though there was something about this place. Rebecca could feel it in her bones. Something otherworldly.
No. It’s only a house.
The only thing truly threatening her composure was her return to this land. Coming back, so close to home... It was bound to be upsetting. Or rather, unsettling. It wasn’t so much the house that troubled her, but all it represented.
A return home. Well, somewhat.
No matter. This position was perfect. Too perfect to resist. It was worth the risk of returning to the fells and dales so near those she had explored as a child. Worth returning to this unforgiving landscape she had always felt in the marrow of her soul, and which now gave her courage as she inhaled deep breaths of the fresh, biting autumn wind.
Independence. Autonomy. Isolation. And a rather impressive salary.
All for what—at least to Rebecca, or to any other housekeeper worth her salt—amounted to child’s play. Thornhallow Hall was, to all intents and purposes, abandoned. Its master, William Reid, the Right Honourable the Earl of Thornhallow, having disappeared from society, and many believed from England, some ten years prior. Since then the house had remained occupied by a diminished army of servants. Why the master had refused to close the house entirely was anyone’s guess. To be certain, it added to the tantalising mystery of it all.
Regardless, it was up to this minuscule army, and now herself, to maintain the efficient and seamless running of the house—most of which, she had been informed, was closed off on the master’s orders.
Only four rooms in the main wing would require her attention. The study, the library, the drawing room and the master’s bedroom. Maintain order and cleanliness as though the Earl might return within the hour—those were her marching orders. Orders she could certainly follow, and with alacrity.
This position offered her independence, and isolation beyond her wildest dreams. Yes, it would be hard work. But never in her life had she shied away from hard labour.
Besides, I doubt I could do any worse than the others before me...
And, after all, it wasn’t as if she had many other options. It was Thornhallow or a house in London. The latter being absolutely, undisputedly, out of the question. She could not return to the city. That was looking for trouble. The last time... The last time it had all nearly ended. She had skirted too close to disaster. And here...
He would never think of looking for her here.
At least that episode in London had served some good. Served as a welcome reminder of her circumstances. Of her life and limitations. Of the need to always keep moving.
So keep moving.
‘Can’t turn back now,’ she muttered, rubbing her wool-covered frozen hands together before grabbing hold of her portmanteau and travelling bag. ‘And besides, you’re well nithered now, you fool.’
With that, Rebecca slid through the creaky, rusted pedestrian gate, as instructed, and began the long walk up the gravelled drive.
Having rung the bell spiritedly, Rebecca turned from the commanding arched oak doors, set into the facade beneath a delicate portico, to admire the landscape from this vantage point. It was...stunning, and invigorating. From here she could see forever. The village, there in the dell to the west, fields, pastures and more villages punctuating the folds and curves of the wild and untamed land, all greens and greys and purples. On a clearer day perhaps she might even see her home from here. So close...
The thought sent another shiver down her spine.
‘Mrs Hardwicke, I presume,’ grumbled a proud-sounding voice.
Rebecca whirled around and found herself staring into a pair of bright grey eyes. Their owner was a tall, lean and elegantly liveried fellow, somewhere in his mid-sixties, though his smooth face belied his age. His greying hair was neatly swept back into a small queue, reminiscent of a bygone age, and his bushy eyebrows joined in a curt frown. Thin lips were tightly pressed together in disapproval, but Rebecca smiled at this man who was most certainly Thornhallow’s butler.
The man who she would need make her ally if she was to succeed here.
‘Mr Brown,’ Rebecca said brightly, stripping off a glove and extending her hand.
At her request, the Earl’s solicitor, Mr Leonards, had provided her with the staff’s names; there was no better way to begin a relationship than by greeting a person properly.
‘Why, I didn’t even hear the creak of the door! How do you do?’
‘How do you do, Mrs Hardwicke?’ he drawled, clearly surprised by her informal greeting, but intently steadfast.
His handshake was strong, and assured, and Rebecca would’ve sworn his eyes warmed ever so slightly as she returned it with vigour.
‘Do come in.’
‘With pleasure, Mr Brown, for I fear I am otherwise in danger of becoming an ice sculpture,’ she jested, grabbing once again her portmanteau and moving to follow.
‘Mrs Hardwicke, do allow me to assist you.’
‘Oh, ’tis quite under control, Mr Brown, I assure you. Why, I’ve handled it thus far up the drive, and for longer journeys than this.’
Defeated, but obviously unwilling to make a scene, or manhandle the luggage from her grasp, the discombobulated butler simply stepped aside and ushered her in, before soundlessly closing the door.
It was certainly warmer and more inviting inside than out, the large fire set in a hearth taller than she doing a remarkable job of chasing the chill from an impressively grand atrium. Deep blue and green diamond-shaped tiles, slightly worn but clean, contrasted with and complemented the long, carved oak-panelled walls. Despite the dark colours, the hall seemed light, and airy—thanks, in part, to the row of windows directly behind her, which flooded what little sunlight this part of England offered into the monumental antechamber, its few rays reflecting against the whitewashed walls of the first floor above.
A solid, intricately carved staircase led there, lined with a disconcertingly plush and unworn Turkish-style carpet. Portraits of long-dead ancestors stared down disapprovingly, seemingly showing the way to more distinguished and fashionable rooms upstairs. To her left, beyond the stairs, was a series of doors carved in the same patterns as the wall, all neatly tucked in, shielding the inhabitants from accidental discovery.
Well. Not so very bad at all.
When she’d first heard of her orders concerning the house, of the tiny contingent of servants, she had been concerned as to what she might find. Seeing it now had defied her expectations, and she could only hope that everything else about Thornhallow—including the rest of its occupants—would do so as well.
Perhaps you will even be happy here. For a time.
‘Shall I show you to your quarters, Mrs Hardwicke?’ Mr Brown offered.
‘Yes, that would be delightful, thank you,’ Rebecca said, stripping off her other glove, her crocheted bonnet and scarf, and stuffing them into the pockets of her very aged coat. ‘And then I should like to meet everyone and tour the house.’
There were six more staff, along with the estate manager—a Mr Bradley, whom she would likely meet later, as he only occasionally visited the house.
A small contingent, indeed, but we shall ensure it is a mighty one.
‘Once I have shown you to your rooms I shall allow you time to...freshen up,’ he said, eyeing her bedraggled figure. ‘And then I shall summon the others.’
‘Excellent, Mr Brown...excellent.’
‘Do, however, leave your portmanteau. Gregory will fetch it down for you.’
Smiling her most winning smile, which had gained her quick and lasting loyalty over the years, Rebecca bowed her head in assent. She could tell Mr Brown already disapproved of her—many did at first. Young, brash and entirely too friendly, compared with everyone’s ideal notion of what a proper housekeeper should be. Rebecca had, nonetheless, always managed to vanquish even her most resolute critics.
Smoothing her ever unruly wisps of auburn hair, she followed Mr Brown through the hall to the servants’ stairs.
‘You’ve come from Birmingham, is that correct?’
Rebecca was pleased that he would not be forcing her to continue the journey in silence.
Yes, I shall win you over soon enough, Mr Brown...
‘Indeed. The lady I served passed, and her children closed the house, so here I am.’
‘Quite a journey, Mrs Hardwicke. Pleasant, I trust?’
‘As pleasant as can be, Mr Brown,’ she said diplomatically, leaving out the details of the uncomfortable, mind-numbing hours she had spent in the post-chaise. ‘And I have arrived in one piece, which must be counted in my favour.’
‘You are unmarried, as I understand it, Mrs Hardwicke?’
Again the note of disapproval was barely concealed beneath his lofty, unconcerned air, and Rebecca sighed inwardly, minding the narrow steps they were now descending.
‘Indeed. The Mrs, in my case, is entirely a matter of courtesy. And you, Mr Brown? Married?’
‘No.’
The butler said nothing more, and Rebecca relented, too tired to force any further conversation or joviality upon the man.
Mr Brown threw open a door, through which both he and Rebecca had to duck to pass, and led them through the servants’ quarters. Down a corridor, past the servants’ hall, the kitchens and what Rebecca presumed was one of the pantries. Here, too, everything was worn, but clean, bright and surprisingly spacious for a house of this age and style.
Finally, Mr Brown stopped before a darkened square room at the end of the corridor, and extracted a key from his pocket. Rebecca watched with slight apprehension as he threw open the door and gestured her inside once a cloud of dust had settled. There was just enough light streaming through the dirtied windows for her to make out the monumental mess which awaited her, though Mr Brown lost no time in lighting a lamp so she could survey her new domain properly.
Rebecca managed to contain her shock—but only just—and only because she was intent on not giving Mr Brown the satisfaction of seeing it. He was watching her like a hawk, so she forced herself to put on her best uninterested expression. She gave no outward sign of noticing the precarious and haphazard piles of papers on the desk, the chairs and floors. No sign of seeing the dust, the cobwebs, and remains of tea and tobacco in every corner and on every surface. She gave no clue whatsoever to the fact that she had noted the tatty, broken and stained furniture—those pieces which weren’t upturned, at least—and the upended torn books, discarded pencils and the droppings from a variety of creatures.
She dared not even think what sight the adjoining bedroom would present.
‘Well, thank you, Mr Brown,’ Rebecca said with a smile.
His astonishment, though well hidden, was nonetheless apparent, and she raised her chin higher. It would take much more than this to discourage her.
‘Shall I meet you and the others in the servants’ hall in, say, half an hour? And perhaps someone could bring me some water?’
‘Of course, Mrs Hardwicke. I shall send Lizzie along.’
A bow and he had gone, leaving her a single key on the ledge by the door, beside a large set which she presumed was the housekeeper’s.
Rebecca shook her head, grabbed the desk chair—at first glance the most solid and least soiled item of furniture—and placed it outside her door. She set her coat on it, rolled up her sleeves and returned to the room to formulate a plan. Though she should be furious and appalled by this blatant mark of disregard and very plain lack of welcome, Rebecca was not. This was a clear demonstration of the staff’s disrespect for the position she now held—disrespect which she could not blame them for. There had been twenty-one housekeepers—twenty-one—in ten years. It was unfathomable.
No wonder, really, that they had few expectations and had made no effort. This was the housekeeper’s domain, and as such it was up to her to deal with her predecessors’ parting gifts. The staff had clearly given up on believing in housekeepers—just as her predecessors had, judging by the state of the room, given up on the house, the staff and themselves.
Yet in that moment, when many others would have felt defeated and dejected, Rebecca felt only pride and excitement. She would make this right, make them believe again. She’d always held the belief that there was a certain nobility to her vocation. It was up to the housekeeper to unite everyone on the staff in a shared goal and inspire them. So that was what she would do. For she was precisely where she was meant to be. Rebecca knew it in her heart. This place, these people, needed her.
I shall make a difference here if it’s the last thing I do. After all, no one said this would be easy, Rebecca Merrickson.
Precisely half an hour after her arrival, Rebecca stood before a nonplussed, grumpy-looking line of servants in the hall. They all stood straight, minded their manners and bore expressions of indifferent readiness—however, there was an air of boredom and irritation about them. As if they were all thinking in unison: Merciful heavens, not another one.
Rebecca understood the sentiment—just as she understood why they had left the housekeeper’s rooms in that horrific state. She understood their disbelief that she would last more than a day, a week or however long it was they had wagered on. And there was no doubt they had a wager going. She knew she wouldn’t win them all over immediately. However, she also knew that right now she needed to lay down her rules and her plans, so that when they saw her stand by them, then perhaps she would earn their respect and trust. They would see her as a worthy, steadfast leader.
Looking between them all, Rebecca tried to match faces to the names and positions Mr Leonards had provided. If she could call them all by name it might be just the trick to wake them up. Two already she knew: Mr Brown, and Lizzie, the pretty but tough-looking maid who had brought her a basin of water. So it couldn’t be that difficult.
The plump and comfortingly motherly-looking woman, older than her, currently sporting a scowl to disintegrate stone, was surely the cook, Mrs Murray. The girl standing by her, tiny and with the air of a ferret about her, was likely the scullery maid, Betsy. As for the gentlemen...
The older of the remaining three, with his rough brown wool breeches, jacket and worn linen shirt, had to be the head groom, Tim. With mousy hair, thick dark brows and a kind, open face, he seemed a gentle sort of fellow who would do well with horses. The young man beside him, dressed in similar attire, with big, round, innocent eyes and a perpetual smile must be the other groom, Sam. Which left Gregory to be the cheeky-looking but rather handsome blond youth in livery matching Mr Brown’s.
‘Good afternoon,’ Rebecca began in her most commanding, assured voice. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you all, and to be here in Thornhallow. As I am sure you know, I am Mrs Hardwicke, your new housekeeper.’
‘Welcome to Thornhallow ma’am,’ Tim said gruffly, with a tug at his forelock. ‘I’m—’
‘Tim?’
‘Aye, ma’am,’ the groom said, eyeing her as though she might prove to be a witch.
‘Thank you for your warm welcome.’ Warm was saying a lot, but then, buttering them all up a little wouldn’t hurt. ‘Now, you are head groom here, correct?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘And in the stables we have two mares and the old master’s horse, a thoroughbred?’
Tim nodded, looking increasingly aghast.
Rebecca felt the stares of the others; she certainly had their full attention now. ‘As well as your standard duties, you and Sam,’ she said, pointedly looking towards the young groom, who rewarded her with an impressed grin, ‘act as gamekeepers and gardeners as well?’
‘Gardener’s a fancy word, ma’am,’ Sam laughed until Tim elbowed him in the ribs. ‘Wha’ I means to say is that we do wha’ we can, Mrs Hardwicke, ma’am. Only, Tim and I ain’t proper trained. Greggy...Gregory...he knows a bit about roses, and he helps out, too.’
‘From what I’ve heard you’ve done very well indeed. I will enjoy a visit to the gardens when you have a moment. And, yes, Gregory,’ she said, turning her attention to the footman. ‘I hear you assist with the gardens—and, of course, serve alongside Mr Brown.’
‘Yes, Mrs Hardwicke.’
‘Excellent. And you are Mrs Murray, I presume?’ Rebecca continued, turning to the cook, who managed to close her mouth just in time. ‘Thornhallow’s famed chef.’
‘You tease, Mrs Hardwicke,’ Mrs Murray said, blushing nonetheless.
‘Not at all. I shared a cart with a certain Mr Hardy. ...
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