“We could stay here and I could look after you,” Serafina said tremulously.
“A month ago, I might have agreed. But matters have gone too far. My illness has worsened. The house is sold and I am moving. And that, my dear, is final.” She kneaded the top of her cane as she inspected her niece through eyes still bright and wise. “Besides which, I have the feeling that this time in service is precisely what you need. Activity, and thinking of others besides yourself.”
“I don’t want—”
“What you want or don’t want is not what we are discussing.” Her severe manner returned. “None of this is as we would have it. But matters have been taken from our hands. You will await word from your parents. In the meantime, you will enter into service.”
“But—”
The cane thumped down once. “You will attend Mrs. Marcham, do you hear me? You will see to whatever duties she assigns you. You will work hard. And you will grow as a result.”
Serafina felt the will to argue drain from her. What did it matter? Her life was ended. There was nothing for her now. No family, no future, no hope.
“There is something else, something I would ask that you take and hold close to your heart in the coming days.” Agatha waited until Serafina had lifted her gaze to continue. “Even in the midst of life’s winter, when death and desolation is all around you, God is. Grant Him time and space, and He will work in you. He will open doors. He will create new life from the ice of old bones. He will show you hope where you are sure none exists.”
Agatha was held by something so intense her entire face became illuminated with joy. “He will show you the way ahead.”
Under Agatha’s instruction, Serafina prepared a cold midday meal. She could not have described the food, and each morsel went down with a struggle. But she ate because her aunt brooked no dissent. Soon after the few dishes had been washed up, a drover’s cart pulled before the gate. Agatha stood in the doorway and leaned upon her cane as the middle-aged man doffed his cap and stepped forward. “All right, Mrs. Donatella?”
“Better than I deserve, Peter. How is your dear young Harry?”
“Terrible, he is. Like to be the death of me.” But he was smiling. “Word is you’ll be moving up to the great house shortly.”
“That’s right. Tomorrow will be my turn.”
“Be grand to have you around again.”
“I can’t imagine why, what with all the work you have. Why anyone would want to bother with me is a mystery.”
“It’s Mrs. Marcham. She just don’t know how to handle the place. Too soft, she is.”
They were both smiling now. “I don’t believe that for a minute,” Agatha retorted. “Especially since I trained her myself.” She turned from the door slightly, granting space for Serafina. When the younger woman held back, Agatha pulled her firmly forward. “This is my niece Serafina. I want you to meet Peter, the head groundskeeper. His wife, Emily, is the pastry cook.”
“Your niece, is it. I warrant she’ll prove a good worker. Hop aboard, lass. Don’t want you to be late on your first day.” He took hold of the old case supplied by Agatha for Serafina’s few things and dropped it behind the seat. Then he offered her his free hand, which felt like tree bark. He doffed his hat once more, then clicked to the horses. “The two lads will be back around to help you shift your own things tomorrow, Mrs. Donatella.”
“I’ll be waiting.” Agatha watched Serafina gravely, not offering a wave of any kind, her entire demeanor a warning and a charge.
The groundskeeper did not take them back through the village, as Serafina would have guessed. Instead, he headed out in the opposite direction. Once beyond the last house, a tall drystone wall crept back in closer to the lane. There was only enough room between lane and wall for a line of sheltering elms. “So you’re niece to our Agatha.”
“Yes, sir.”
“No need for sirs, lass. Not between the likes of us. Peter’s the name my dear old dad gave me, and it’s fine by all who know me.”
“But Mrs. Marcham—”
“Aye, well, the head of staff is a different kettle of fish. They’re in between, if you catch my meaning.” He glanced her way. “You’re fresh from the old country, are you?”
“F-from Venice.”
“So you don’t have a clue what I’m on about.” They came to a break in the wall. This particular entryway was marked not by stone columns as in the front, but rather by houses built close to either side of open iron gates. He clucked to the horse and guided it around the corner onto the unpaved rutted lane. To either side stretched more small stone houses. Fenced garden plots separated them from the estate’s open fields. Serafina spied goats and a pond with geese and ducks. Somewhere a rooster crowed. “Mrs. Marcham and Cuthbert the butler are them what deal with the manor folk. We see his lordship from time to time. And the young master, of course. But Mrs. Marcham and Cuthbert speak to them regular. The pair of ‘em runs the house. You catch my meaning?”
“I . . . I think so.”
“You mind what they say to you and you do as you’re told. You’ll get on well enough.” He eyed her shrewdly. “Long as you keep out of the way of the young master. I reckon your aunt’s warned you about him.”
“Just a little.”
“He’s a scamp, is young Stewart. A scamp and a scallywag.” He entered into a tunnel formed by trees so ancient three men could not have grasped hands around their trunks. “The young master is a good shot, mind. And a fair hand with a horse. Loves the countryside, I’ll grant him that. But you’d best steer well clear. Keep yourself belowstairs and out of sight, that’s my advice.”
The trees fell away and the tunnel opened. Serafina gasped at the sight.
“Aye, the old place is a stunner, I’ll give you that.” The groundsman spoke with genuine pride.
Despite the overcast sky, the house shone golden in the afternoon light. The three-story main portion was stone and very square. Windows higher than a man were flanked by pillars carved from the stonework. A much older house stretched from the manor’s opposite side, a structure of narrow windows and heavy beams embracing plastered walls. The two edifices taken together seemed the size of a small village.
He pulled the carriage up to a low building of brick, perhaps four times as large as her aunt’s home. “Step down, lass. I’ll hand down your case.”
“W-where are we?”
“This? Oh, the duke had a mind to separate the kitchen from the main house. It’s all the rage, or so I’m told. Keeps the smells and such away from the living quarters.”
“That will do, Peter. I’ll take over from here.” Mrs. Marcham appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Come along, young lady. There’s no time for gawking.”
“I’ll be seeing you around, lass.” The groundskeeper dropped the small case to the ground and flicked the horse’s reins. “Hyah, get up there.”
Mrs. Marcham gestured impatiently. “You must learn to move more swiftly when you are called.”
Serafina had just picked up her satchel and started after the housekeeper when a young man appeared at the main house’s rear entrance. Serafina saw how Mrs. Marcham stiffened at his arrival.
“Here now, what’s this?” the young man asked in a languid drawl.
Mrs. Marcham’s tone grew coldly polite. “Good afternoon, sir.”
“Why, Mrs. Marcham, do we have some new household help? I haven’t seen this young lass around before.”
“She will be helping Cook in the kitchen.”
“The meals will be far more tasty, I’m sure.” Though Serafina kept her eyes lowered, her one glance revealed fawncolored slacks tucked into riding boots that gleamed with a mirror shine. “Where ever did you find her?”
“She is Mrs. Donatella’s niece.”
“Is she now. How fortunate for the old lady. You there. What do they call you?”
Mrs. Marcham touched Serafina on the shoulder. “Come along.”
Serafina followed the housekeeper towa
rd the doorway.
“Here now. Don’t I deserve a civil reply?”
Mrs. Marcham halted in the kitchen doorway. When she turned back to the young man, her expression was flinty. “I do hope I shan’t have cause to speak to your father, sir.”
Serafina kept her face angled toward the kitchen. But she heard the young man’s casual good humor vanish. “My father won’t be around forever to protect you, Mrs. Marcham. You would be well advised to remember that.”
“Sir.” The woman remained as she was for a long moment, and then she sighed and asked, “Are those all your belongings?”
“Yes, Mrs. Marcham.”
“Inside with you.” As she directed Serafina forward, she murmured beneath her breath, “Just as I said. Trouble.”
Beryl Marcham maintained her distracted air as she ushered Serafina through the kitchen. At the side of the building closest to the main house, Mrs. Marcham descended a set of stone stairs. Her footsteps and words echoed loudly as she led Serafina along a stone tunnel. “This leads from the kitchen to the manor’s dining hall.” The echoes made it hard for Serafina to understand her words. “If you help with serving food, you will carry everything back and forth along here. And you will hurry, do you hear me, young lady? Everything must arrive at the dining table while still piping hot.”
At the tunnel’s end they climbed a circular stone stairs. They came up into a flagstone antechamber, one lined with tall windows. “The maids’ rooms are along this way,” she said and started down a narrow corridor. The wood floor was scuffed a brownish gray. The walls were painted but unadorned. Mrs. Marcham knocked on a door, then opened it. “You should be comfortable here.”
A grimy window overlooked the swept yard between the kitchen and the main house. The floor was the same raw planking as in the corridor. There were two very narrow beds, both with mattresses rolled up on wooden slats. The only private space was a pair of drawers beneath each bed. A wash table and basin stood in one corner. Hooks lined the walls.
“We’re a bit understaffed at the moment. But you mustn’t think you will enjoy this room by yourself for very long.” She pointed to the bed on the left. “Take that one. It will have the morning light. Now leave your things, and let’s review your duties.”
Serafina followed her back down the hall and into the small foyer. Mrs. Marcham pointed to a tall set of polished doors that stood opposite the stairs. “These lead to the principal rooms. You must only enter these when you are specifically sent there on your duties. We must be absolutely clear on this point.”
“Yes, Mrs. Marcham.”
The doors creaked open. A man of regal bearing with white muttonchop sideburns stepped through. He gripped the lapel of his black long coat with one hand and eyed Serafina down the length of his bony nose. “A new charge, is it?”
“Yes, Mr. Cuthbert. Serafina, you may curtsy to the chief butler.”
She did as she was ordered. “Good day, sir.”
“Serafina, did you say? What sort of name is that?”
“Italian,” Mrs. Marcham replied. “She is Agatha’s niece.”
“Is she, now. I hope she won’t be putting on airs and expecting unfair advantages as a result.”
“Not for long, I assure you of that.”
The butler eyed Serafina a moment longer but addressed the housekeeper. “I noticed the encounter with the young lordship.”
“Very little escapes your attention,” Mrs. Marcham noted archly.
“Could be trouble, that.”
“Not if I have anything to say about it.”
“No. Of course not. Where do you intend for her to begin?”
“Scullery maid,” she replied. “I’ll instruct Cook to add duties as she sees fit.”
“That should keep her out of harm’s way.” He lifted his chin a notch. “Work hard, young lady. Mrs. Marcham is a fair mistress. You’ll learn that soon enough. Earn her respect, and mine.” He nodded to the housekeeper and disappeared.
“Come along.” Mrs. Marcham swept through a battered swinging door. She pointed up a narrow spiral staircase. “Up here lodge the male servants and footmen. All but the groundskeepers; they reside above the stables. You are not to go upstairs under any circumstances. Do I make myself clear? Any maid found either up here or above the stables will be instantly dismissed.”
“Yes, Mrs. Marcham.”
“This way.” She pushed through an outer door and entered the late afternoon light. A wet chill was already gathering. The housekeeper’s skirt swished over the grass as she hastened around the kitchen outbuilding. Serafina had to hurry to keep up.
Set far back from the kitchen were the stables. Between them was a mound of logs rising higher than the kitchen roof. A young man of Serafina’s age worked with an ax, breaking the logs into kindling.
“This is Harry, the groundskeeper’s son. His duties . . . well, you can see them for yourself.”
With one easy gesture the young man swiped his brow and pulled off his sweat-stained cap. A broad smile creased his tanned features. He offered a cheery “A grand afternoon, I’m sure, Mrs. Marcham.”
“This is Serafina. Mrs. Donatella’s niece. She will be serving as scullery maid for the time being.”
“And it’s wonderful to have the company, I’m sure.”
“You are to show her the proper duties and refrain from all else, is that clear?”
Not even her frosty retort could dim his exuberance. “Clear as the day itself, Mrs. Marcham.”
The housekeeper continued to Serafina, “The main rooms contain thirty-four fireplaces. You are to clean them out each morning and lay new kindling. But do not light them. The butler will do this himself, if required. You are to complete this first duty before the house awakens. You do not tend to the fires in the private rooms. Those will be seen to by the servants of each lord and lady. Each evening you will return through the rooms and fill the wood baskets and light any fires which require it.”
When the housekeeper paused, Serafina knew enough to respond, “Yes, Mrs. Marcham.”
“Between these duties you will serve at whatever task is assigned you by Cook.” She pulled out a miniature pocket watch pinned to her vest. “Now if you will excuse me, I must see to dinner preparations.”
As the housekeeper’s purposeful stride carried her away, Serafina turned back to the footman and said, “Thirty-four fireplaces?”
“And a heap of grand old stairs to climb between them.” This too did not dim his smile. “Never you mind. Tell me again what I should call you?”
At his ruddy complexion and stout good cheer, a tiny ray of hope found its way into Serafina’s leaden heart. “S-Serafina.”
“And what a lovely name that is. At this time of year, you won’t need but one basket of wood per fire. Come winter, now, we’ll all be puffing a good deal more from the work. But winter’s eons away and we’ve got a splendid roast pudding for our supper.” He clunked his ax down into the earth and picked up a pair of woven baskets—massive affairs as broad as Serafina’s outstretched arms. “Let’s fill these with kindling and I’ll show you about the old place.”
Chapter 16
A sailor would have called the morning very thin. Falconer stepped down from the carriage and sniffed the still air. He was in London, a city he did not know. A damp mist encased the world. He stood upon a square flanked by grand houses with a park across the way. Rows of trees lined the cobblestone lanes, they in turn showcasing stout Georgian townhouses.
Falconer rubbed his back and shoulders against the carriage frame, seeking to ease away the knots. He could not recall the last time he had felt this tired. He watched as a man he had roused from his bed not an hour earlier mounted the stairs three at a time and knocked on the front door. The man was named Daniel and claimed to be Gareth Powers’s former sergeant major. Falconer found no reason to doubt the man. Although Daniel’s long hair was now more gray than black, he still carried an impressive bulk about his massive frame. When the door di
d not open swiftly enough to suit him, Daniel pounded with a force that made Falconer wince.
The front door was flung back by a large, very cross woman in nightdress and matron’s cap. “What on earth do you . . . ?” her tirade began. Then she recognized the man looming over her. “Daniel!”
“Aye, Mattie. Is the missus here?”
“Where else would she be, the hour before dawn?” She glanced around the big man, taking in the carriage and horsemen. “Is there news?”
“What about the Aldridges, are they in?”
“Everyone’s fast asleep.”
“Go rouse them, Mattie, that’s a good girl.”
She returned her gaze to the former soldier. “You have news, don’t you. Is it the bairn? Tell me little Hannah is well.”
“I’ll tell you that and more. But only after you awaken the house. The missus deserves hearing my news first of all.” Daniel waved at where Falconer stood by the carriage. “The man’s traveled day and night and day again, Mattie. Is there food?”
“Not yet, but there will be soon. Take him back to the kitchen.” Then she was gone.
“You can come up now, sir,” Daniel said to Falconer, then continued to the two men on the carriage, “You lads can hop down and stretch your legs.”
One of the horsemen objected, “We were ordered to never let Mr. Falconer out of our sight.”
“And I’m telling you he couldn’t be safer here if we locked him in the cellars of Westminster,” Daniel retorted.
“Make ready for a swift departure,” Falconer instructed the men. “I warrant they will supply us with fresh steeds so we can start back soon enough.”
Inside, the house was filled with a rising clamor. Doors banged and voices shouted. Feet ran to and fro. Falconer rubbed the weariness from his eyes and followed Daniel through the foyer and down the hall. A maid curtsied and offered Daniel a nervous smile. “Mattie says I’m to serve you coffee.”
“Grub,” he corrected. “The gentleman’s hollowed out.”
Falconer dusted the road off his coat and trousers. “Coffee will do.”
Heirs of Acadia - 03 - The Noble Fugitive Page 16
