Ready for the day, she removed the chair, crept into her office and stood listening at the hall door. For the ghost? For someone who had played the ghost?

  She wanted to believe the latter.

  Yet fear of the former kept shivering through her.

  Jessa would straighten her room later. Basin emptied out and new water in the ewer. Fire laid in the shared hearth. A few little items straightened. Clothing taken to the laundry.

  She drew out the pocketwatch. Five. Jessa’s day would be starting. She would light the main hall sconces first, kindle the fires in the rooms that would be used. A kitchen maid would be starting her work, preparing for M’Sieur Diderot to appear at seven.

  Mr. Hicks would prowl the service hall in the next half-hour. Tea, eggs, and dry toast at six with the other servants trickling in. Then the day was truly started.

  Lord Harcourt would have coffee on a tray at eight. Their conference would be at ten.

  Elizabeth took a deep breath, unlocked her door, and entered the hall.

  Darkness. Silence.

  Then she saw the glow of light, off in the entrance hall. Humming. Jessa was about.

  She slipped her room key over her head.

  The servants had spoken of ghosts. Jessa had wanted to leave. Last night, Diderot and Jackman had mocked the idea of a ghost, but the others said nothing.

  Elizabeth didn’t like coincidences.

  She encountered no one until she entered the kitchen where she found Celly and the spit boy yawning over their tea.

  “Good morning. No, do not get up. I’ll serve myself.” She found a creamware cup, the rim nicked, and poured tea, adding cream. Then she sat opposite Celly and the boy and silently sipped.

  After several minutes and a top-up of tea, Celly nudged the boy. He yawned and stretched then began to build up the fire.

  Footsteps in the passage heralded more servants. Mr. Hicks came in, grunted, and left. Then came another kitchen maid, who made a fresh pot of tea and immediately started a third fill of the kettle. Elizabeth discovered she was in the way of bread slicing and removed herself.

  The footman was first to join her at table. He said nothing, just sat with his eyes closed. A good ten minutes passed before Jessa arrived, with Jackman on her heels. Elizabeth greeted them all with smile—but she watched them closely.

  In the kitchen, the fire was going

  If her ghost had been a false ghost, she wanted an idea of who had tried to haunt her.

  Diderot arrived early, talking with Hicks about supplies still lacking after yesterday’s trip to the market. As soon as he took his seat, the butler ordered Ian Rodgers to check the attics for leaks.

  Soon, they all sat around the table, passing scrambled eggs and toast, topping up the tea in their cups with a steaming pot, hoarding the marmalade until they had all they wanted.

  Elizabeth waited until everyone seemed content with their breakfast, then she set down her fork. “Do tell me more about the resident ghosts.”

  ~4~

  For the longest moment, no one answered, then came a clatter of denials: Hicks, the three kitchen maids, the spitboy. Their denials were so strong that she didn’t think it wise to mention her encounter last night.

  The chef and the all-work man stayed quiet, the latter because he worked at his pipe.

  Jessa sat silent, watching with big eyes. She shared a nod with Elizabeth.

  Diderot squirmed for a bit then hurried into the kitchen. He returned as the denials ebbed. “The dinners for today and through the weekend, they must be set forward, n’c’est-ce pas? Certain supplies that the village does not provide, it is that those supplies are running low. I will provide you a list, Mademoiselle Fortescue. Perhaps it is that these supplies can be fetched from Thirsk early next week.”

  Jackman looked up at that last bit. “Need anything today from the village?”

  “I will write that list immediatement, mon ami.”

  Elizabeth looked from the meticulous chef to the rough handyman, but the latter was back to puffing on his pipe and the former had retreated to his pantry.

  “We’ve the day before us,” Mr. Hicks said. He stood. “Miss Fortescue, I got a message from his lordship last evening, before he retired. He wants to delay your conference til this afternoon. Teatime, he said. You’ll join him then.”

  The change surprised her. She wondered the cause. Another coincidence?

  Had the baron been the ghost?

  “If you please, Mr. Hicks.” She waited until his dark eyes under those bushy brows met hers. “We have certainly delayed a tour of the unused rooms. Since my conference with his lordship is moved, now would seem an excellent time for that investigation.”

  “I’ve got m’duties.”

  “Will you not delay them a little? I dislike prowling about, nosing into rooms that are best left closed. The Grange must have several rooms that are opened only when our rare guests arrive.”

  “His lordship don’t entertain.”

  The servants’ combined gazes switched to Elizabeth, like spectators at a tennis match watching a volley.

  “He did tell me that in our original interview. However, rare occasions do not mean never, and I would certainly wish to be prepared should guests appear on our doorstep. The unused public rooms, choices for private chambers, a few other rooms that must be maintained even if they are not in constant use. Those are the ones that I wish to see, and this morning seems an excellent time for that investigation.”

  He scowled. “I’ll do it this morn. Might as well.”

  The butler had given in before she expected him to do so. Another coincidence? Could he be involved?

  “Mr. Jackman, I will write a list of a few supplies for the house that are running low. I believe it best if we restock before our supply is exhausted. Candles and the like. Will you be riding or take a cart?”

  “With Diderot’s kind of list, I’ll be in the cart.”

  “I will provide the list momentarily. Thank you for this errand.” Elizabeth drew Jessa to her as they left the room. “After you turn out his lordship’s room, Jessa, will you see to my room as well? I had an eventful night, one could say.”

  “Storm kept you awake?”

  “No, I was awake before then. My own fault. I was thinking of the past.”

  Hicks waited at the door to her office while she dashed off a quick list for Jackman. Since the writing supplies in the office desk were lacking, she added foolscap, quill, and ink to her list. He sighed heavily when she entered her bedchamber. She shut the door and stood beside the wardrobe, out of view of the shared hearth, as she reached for the purse tied under her skirts for safekeeping. A handful of coins would pay for her list.

  Jackman waited in the entrance hall. She gave him her list and poured coins into his large hand. He touched his slouch hat then walked out without a word.

  “Now, Mr. Hicks, I am ready. Should we start here? Is there a withdrawing room or a receiving room? Lord Harcourt may not use those rooms, yet they should be kept prepared. Is there another public room, a morning room perhaps, with which I should be familiar?”

  He led her to the back hall and a room that accessed the terrace that overlooked the garden. “Best you decide what you want done first and last.”

  She didn’t respond. The old man had his way of doing things. He and all the servants should expect her to implement new routines. None, however, would interfere with his duties. In her two weeks here, Elizabeth had noticed that many daily tasks often slid for three days or more before they were dealt with. She reckoned the lack came more from overwork than any sloth.

  “You been eying the changes that you will make when you bring your own people in?”

  That was a deliberate question rather than a simple comment to ignore. Many old retainers worried when a new housekeeper took the reins. “I have noticed a few tasks that are not consistently done,” she said calmly. She peeked into a cold disused room then stepped away so Hicks could close the door. “Such as the hearth in Lord Harcourt’s study is not daily cleaned.”

  “What of it?”

  “Just that I would prefer that the ash be emptied daily. Jessa, however, is only one person. She cannot do everything. We should have a small boy to see to such matters as well as keeping the coal hods filled. Who usually does such things?”

  “I do, when I get to it.”

  “These are not the duties of a butler or a factotum. Lord Harcourt informed me that was your service here at the Grange.”

  Her words gave him pause, then he said, “The hearths used to be least maid’s job. Jessa can’t do it, got too much already, which is the reason I took it on. We don’t need a lot of staff. His lordship puts his money to the land.”

  “Where have I heard that before?” she mused.

  Hicks flung up his arms. “Hiyah, cat!”

  The greymalkin sprang from a window sill and vanished down the hall with a flick of her tail.

  “The cat is not welcome in the house?”

  “Lordship likes her. The rest of us tolerate her. This be the receiving room. Shut up most of the time, even when we do have the rare guest.” His dark eyes rolled her way, and she nodded and smiled, acknowledging his use of her words. He allowed Elizabeth a long look at the room before he shut the door and continued to the entrance hall.

  The whole tour followed the same procedure: an announcement of the room’s purpose, an allowed survey that never lasted long enough, then the butler hastened to the next room.

  Elizabeth had tried to form opinions about all of the Grange’s household servants, yet Mr. Hicks continued to elude her. In her first days, she would have said he was a crotchety man old before his time. He still had tendencies toward curmudgeonly, but he also appeared to have reasons for that personality. He never gave any commentary or insight, about the house, about the other servants, about the village, about anything. About his lordship he was certainly close-mouthed.

  The breakfast room was chilled, its curtains closed tightly. She thrust one panel back to see shutters covering the windows. “This is the east side of the house. The sunshine should be pouring in, warming this room. When was it last used?”

  “Before Lady Harcourt died.”

  Elizabeth perked up.

  He cleared his throat. “The current lord’s grandmother. His mother never came to the house. Stayed in London all the time.”

  Hicks varied his comments on the first floor by naming the bedchambers by color or “the Duke’s room, from when Buckingham came to stay”, the red room or blue or yellow. When he indicated the baron’s room, he said, “the Shield Room,” which surprised her, Farther down the hall he opened the door to a furnished sitting room with doors on either side. “This is the Lord’s and Lady’s Rooms.”

  She wondered that Lord Harcourt did not use the suite. They ascended next to the second floor with its countless unoccupied rooms. Ye then they swept past a recess with an open door. “What is this room, Mr. Hicks?”

  “You don’t need to look in there.”

  She raised her eyebrows and waited.

  Hicks clasped his hands behind him. “His lordship don’t like his things out of order.”

  “Lord Harcourt? Why would he be up here? He has the Shield Room, doesn’t he?” Which was another strangeness. Why was he not in the Lord’s Room? “Or he can read in his study. Why would he come to the second floor?”

  He didn’t answer. Elizabeth stepped to the threshold and peered in.

  The plain little room had no curtain and little furniture, yet it didn’t look cold or stale, as the Lord’s and Lady’s Rooms had. An oil lamp rested on a small table beside a chair with a cushion. On the floor beside the chair was an empty goblet and an opened wine bottle. She could smell the cabernet from the door. A book also lay on the floor, open and face-down, holding the page.

  Then she saw the bells on the wall and knew the room was where servants waited until rung for.

  She pushed the door wide and entered.

  No, the room didn’t change on a closer inspection. Why would Lord Harcourt come to this little room to drink wine and read rather than doing so in his chamber or in his study or that receiving room that overlooked the terrace? There were several comfortable chairs there. Here the chair was straight-backed and hard, eased only with a yellow cushion. She placed a hand on the chair then bent and picked up the goblet, the wine, and the book.

  Wine sloshed. He hadn’t finished the bottle.

  She set the goblet and wine on the little table. She turned the book over to read the page.

  “Now, Miss Fortescue, he won’t like it.”

  “I did ask that all be tidied, Mr. Hicks. Things on the floor when a table is at hand, that is not tidy. You can inform him that I was here, and he can rail at me this afternoon.”

  The book was John Donne’s poetry. The page opened to “The Dreame.”

  Therefore, thou wakd’st me wisely; yet

  My Dreame thou brok’st not, but continued’st it,

  Thou art so truth, that thoughts of thee suffice,

  To make dreames truths; and fables histories;

  Enter these armes, for since thou thoughtst it best,

  Not to dreame all my dreame, let’s act the rest.

  “Your lordship!” Hicks exclaimed.

  Elizabeth turned, curtsied.

  Harcourt filled the narrow doorway. His dark riding coat and buckskins had not yet faced the rain outdoors. His dark hair was clubbed at his neck. One hand held his gloves; the other rested on the door jamb. “Hicks informed you that we will meet this afternoon.”

  “He did, my lord.”

  “New broom?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Are you going to sweep us clean, Miss Fortescue?”

  She folded her hands at her waist. “Not quite in the manner that you suggest, my lord, yet sweeping clean is a wise choice for any new housekeeper.”

  “You’ve not lost my place?” He indicated the book in her hand.

  “Indeed not.” She showed him her inserted finger. “Should I deliver this book to the Shield Room, my lord, or return it to your study?”

  His look turned quizzical. “Is this room not appropriate for my use?”

  She glanced around at the barren room, its sole chair, the little table with the oil lamp. “I can hardly order your choices, my lord.”

  Hicks huffed.

  She bent to place the volume face-down, as she had found it but on the cushion, when Harcourt cleared his throat. He strode to the chair and reached to slide something from between the cushion and chair arm. A flash of metal, then he slipped it into his jacket pocket. “I forgot this.” When he straightened, they stood side by side. Their eyes met and clung. In the chilled room, his body heat was a palpable aura. Then he cleared his throat. “Take the book to my bedchamber.”

  She and Hicks followed the lord. His strides quickly took him down the corridor to the stairs, and they heard him clattering down.

  When Elizabeth would have continued their grand tour, Hicks huffed again and pointed to the book. “His lordship told you what to do with that.”

  “Yes, he did,” and she led the way back to the Shield Room.

  All the while she questioned the baron’s choice to sit vigil in a barren room. Clearly something had disturbed his sleep.

  She did not think it wise to lay the cause of his vigil to a desire to read John Donne’s poetry.

  . ~ . ~ . ~ .

  Teatime found her in the study, a crackling fire casting off the room’s chill. Once more she stood before Lord Harcourt’s desk, waiting for his appearance. Greymalkin purred in a chair angled to the hearth. Wind and rain beat against the windows, but the study itself gave welcome warmth.

  Elizabeth reached another thousand and started again. Harcourt himself had set this time for their interview. Mindful of creating a better impression than her travel-soaked self at their first meeting, she had shed her redingote and donned a prettily embroidered bodice over her spring green gown. The baron would be used to her uniform, but this was tea, very different to a morning interview to discuss work. She wasn’t certain the reason behind the change. Hicks had given no hint. She doubted the old man had even considered it. He had only said that he would send the tea tray as soon as his lordship returned.

  The door opened. Her skin tingled awareness. Then Baron Harcourt strode across the room. She turned slightly to greet him.

  He had stopped at the chairs angled before the hearth. He scratched behind the cat’s ears. “Join me, Miss Fortescue.”

  She dipped a quick curtsey, but he had scooped up the cat. He settled it on a knee as she took the other chair.

  A rattle of china announced the tea’s arrival. Hicks carried in the tray, with Jessa behind him. She hastened past to set a sturdy table at Elizabeth’s right hand. Then they bustled out, Hicks closing the study door behind him.

  Elizabeth glanced at that firmly-shut door then lifted the teapot. Steam wafted from the spout. “Cream, my lord? Sugar?”

  “A spot of cream. Has Cook given us cake?”

  Perhaps she had too heavily considered this change to a barely-started routine. Hicks had enjoined her to a proper deference. The baron’s manner had always countered that. She poured easily, added his spot of cream, then handed over his cup. “A spice cake, savouries, biscuits.” She passed him a plate then poured her own tea and lifted the cup, letting the steam waft over her chilled skin.

  Harcourt filled his plate with a variety. After a sip of tea, he bit into the wedge of cake. “That’s good. I must say that I have looked forward to this tea since the rain began this morning. Did you receive your grand tour?”

  When he glanced at her, expectant, Elizabeth swallowed quickly. “I did, my lord.”

  “Miss Fortescue.” He stopped to considered his words. The cat lifted up, turned about, then re-settled as she’d been. “I think for our teatime, Miss Fortescue—.”

  “Yes, my lord?”

  A frown wrinkled between his dark brows. “We should be ourselves, Miss Fortescue. The minatory eyes of others no longer watch us.”

  What does that mean? “As you wish, my lord.”

  His frown deepened. “Will you not indulge in Cook’s fine pastries?”

 

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