“Here is Miss Isabella Barrett,” the housekeeper said to someone at Isabella’s back, her voice firm and pleasant, as though announcing a guest of importance. “Come from London.”
Isabella turned and found four sets of eyes staring back at her. Three of the sets belonged to young women dressed in black twill with white aprons, each wearing a white crochet cap. One set belonged to an older woman who turned to one of the maids and said, “Fetch her plate.”
“That’s very kind,” Isabella said.
The older woman—Isabella thought she must be the cook—grunted in return.
“Pay her no mind,” Mrs. Abernathy said lightly. “That’s as friendly as Cook gets.” She turned to the girls at the table. “Here are Mary and Emma.” The other girl set a plate before Isabella. “And this is Peg. On with you, now, girls. Miss Barrett is far too tired to entertain the lot of you tonight.”
The expressions that flickered across their faces as they hurried away were something between disappointment and relief. As Isabella watched them go, it struck her that they retreated in silence, no whispers exchanged, no murmurs or laughter, their footsteps soft on the worn floorboards.
“Mr. Caradoc likes a quiet house,” Mrs. Abernathy said. “Especially at night. Was that explained to you?”
A flicker of sadness wove through her. Perhaps quiet had become a discipline for him, institutional quiet, the kind enforced by keys and seclusion cells. The thought pressed hard against her breastbone, leaving a dull ache within.
“No, but I see no difficulty,” Isabella said. “My father liked a quiet house, all the better to read and study.” The exception had been when they entertained his contemporaries; then, the conversation had often grown quite lively and boisterous. “I can be quiet as a mouse.”
Mrs. Abernathy nodded, but her gaze lingered too long on Isabella, as though weighing her worth, or perhaps her resilience.
Finally, she said, “Will you want the water closet?”
Grateful, Isabella went and performed her ablutions before returning to the table. She sat before the plate of beefsteak pudding and boiled turnips the maid had set out for her, the meal plain but comfortingly warm and filling. Mrs. Abernathy sat on the opposite side of the table while Isabella ate, asking innocuous questions about the journey and London. But the housekeeper was not comfortable. Isabella saw it in the way the woman clasped her hands, in the tone of her voice, and in the way she gnawed on her lower lip.
“Is something amiss?” Isabella asked, recognizing the small languages of worry.
“No…not amiss, not precisely,” Mrs. Abernathy said, drawing out each word. “We have a large house but a small household here. There’s only Mr. Caradoc and… And the staff. A smallish staff. There’s Cook, the three maids you met when you arrived, and Tom Grange. You met him, too.”
“The coachman,” Isabella said.
“Coachman, groom, stable hand all rolled into one. Oh, and there’s Matty. The houseboy.”
“And you,” Isabella said.
“And me.”
Isabella thought of the enormity of the house she had seen from outside, its windows staring down at her like empty eyes, vast and unfeeling. The staff, as described, seemed swallowed whole by the place, too few souls to warm so many cold rooms. Pansy’s warnings drifted back to her, weaving a curl of unease through her belly.
“Does Mr. Caradoc have a valet?”
“He does not. There was a footman, Robert Kent, but he left for London a half year ago,” Mrs. Abernathy said.
The silence that followed felt heavy, weighted with something unsaid. The fire crackled, and a draft whispered across Isabella’s ankles, cold as an ice house floor. The housekeeper pressed her lips together as if holding back words she had not yet decided to set free.
Isabella wondered if those words pertained to the departed footman or to the issue that was “not amiss, not precisely,” as the housekeeper would have it. She did not wait long for an answer.
“You see… The thing is…” Mrs. Abernathy drew a deep breath and finished in a rush. “You’re an in-between.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“An in-between,” Mrs. Abernathy said. “You’re not quite a servant, but neither are you family or a guest. I didn’t quite know where to put you in the order of things, if you take my meaning. I don’t know how things are done in London, but we are simple folk here.”
Isabella was quiet for a moment. Papa’s household had been small and intimate with a level of familiarity with the staff that was uncommon. She was surprised by the housekeeper’s admission that she wasn’t certain how to proceed. But the genuine concern in Mrs. Abernathy’s expression had Isabella hastening to reassure her.
“I have no wish to be set apart. I am an employee, and I will gladly share the duties and table of the household.”
“Alone isn’t always better,” Mrs. Abernathy said softly, almost to herself. Her gaze darted around the room before snapping back to Isabella. The shadows cast by the fire stretched along the walls, long fingers reaching into dim corners.
“Then you don’t take it as an affront?” the housekeeper asked. “As I said, I don’t know London ways. Never been there. I wasn’t certain…”
