consequence.
Daughter of the innkeeper and clearly itching to be liberated from her parents' stern eyes, Mary had glowed to be asked if she would like a place at the Countess's estate. She was a little wren of a girl, brown-haired and round with shining dark eyes, and now she turned her head this way and that, and chirped, "Lord have mercy, but it's a fine place. Very fine. Fancy me to work in a house like this. I wish me Mum could see me now."
Elizabeth took a deep breath and prayed for only one ounce more patience. Mary had chattered non-stop throughout the journey, and Elizabeth did not have the heart to quell a girl she had just removed from everything she had known. She knew only too well how that felt.
"Please find a footman to take my bags to my room. Then present yourself to the housekeeper and ask to be put to work."
"Yes, milady." The girl curtsied, barely subdued, and trotted away.
The coachman flicked his reins and the carriage lurched back into motion, to drive to the back of the house. Elizabeth was left standing alone before its massive, crumbling facade.
The place had once been stately, but signs of decay were obvious. The stone was blotchy and scabrous with mosses and lichens, and there were chips fallen out at ground level - some still lying where they had fallen - and chunks gone from the parapet that edged the roof line.
Was no one to come and greet her? No one looking out for her arrival? Apparently not. The windows were very dark, and now both Mary and the carriage were out of sight, there was no movement about the place.
Feeling very small before the looming masonry of the old manor, she went up the stairs and through the front door that Mary had already found unlocked and left ajar.
Inside the gloom was menacing, though when she pivoted she saw it was only because the windows were so dirty, for there were certainly enough of them to let in sufficient light if they were properly clean. When she listened very carefully she heard only silence. Where was the army of staff who should be here to make the house hum along in quiet efficiency? All was still, so much that her London-born ears felt they must be muffled.
Choosing a direction at random, she went left and trailed through several connected drawing rooms scantily stocked with shrouded furniture, then reached an Elizabethan great hall. Her footsteps raised dust motes, which danced in the dull shafts of light that shone from small leaded panes up high in the walls. The place smelled worse than the coach: of mold and decay as well as mice. Beneath a gray film she could see great swathes of the herringbone parquet floor had been damaged by leaks that must have gone on for years if not decades.
This house would need money poured into it to bring it back to glory. What had the earl's family been thinking, to let it reach such a state?
Expecting at any moment to encounter a servant of whom she could ask the location of the earl, she left the ground level and went up the central staircase. But there was nothing on the first floor but more dusty, empty or partially empty rooms, and sometimes the scuttle of some creature disturbed as she opened a door. Revolting.
When she found a narrow staircase leading even higher up, she only contemplated it for a moment before turning away. It was clearly designed for servants and perhaps the children of the long-vanished household.
She did discover a single pair of adjoining bedrooms that had been cleaned, with wood laid in the fireplaces ready for lighting, and fresh beeswax tapers in candelabra on the mantel. This must be the suite for the Earl and Countess. She examined the bedspread on the more feminine of the two rooms. It was a sad disappointment next to her own smaller bed at home. For all its great size, the covers were yellowed and thin with age. She went to the windows and threw them open to the chill, gray day. Certainly some of her dowry would be spent here, for she refused to sleep in such a state
Daughter of the innkeeper and clearly itching to be liberated from her parents' stern eyes, Mary had glowed to be asked if she would like a place at the Countess's estate. She was a little wren of a girl, brown-haired and round with shining dark eyes, and now she turned her head this way and that, and chirped, "Lord have mercy, but it's a fine place. Very fine. Fancy me to work in a house like this. I wish me Mum could see me now."
Elizabeth took a deep breath and prayed for only one ounce more patience. Mary had chattered non-stop throughout the journey, and Elizabeth did not have the heart to quell a girl she had just removed from everything she had known. She knew only too well how that felt.
"Please find a footman to take my bags to my room. Then present yourself to the housekeeper and ask to be put to work."
"Yes, milady." The girl curtsied, barely subdued, and trotted away.
The coachman flicked his reins and the carriage lurched back into motion, to drive to the back of the house. Elizabeth was left standing alone before its massive, crumbling facade.
The place had once been stately, but signs of decay were obvious. The stone was blotchy and scabrous with mosses and lichens, and there were chips fallen out at ground level - some still lying where they had fallen - and chunks gone from the parapet that edged the roof line.
Was no one to come and greet her? No one looking out for her arrival? Apparently not. The windows were very dark, and now both Mary and the carriage were out of sight, there was no movement about the place.
Feeling very small before the looming masonry of the old manor, she went up the stairs and through the front door that Mary had already found unlocked and left ajar.
Inside the gloom was menacing, though when she pivoted she saw it was only because the windows were so dirty, for there were certainly enough of them to let in sufficient light if they were properly clean. When she listened very carefully she heard only silence. Where was the army of staff who should be here to make the house hum along in quiet efficiency? All was still, so much that her London-born ears felt they must be muffled.
Choosing a direction at random, she went left and trailed through several connected drawing rooms scantily stocked with shrouded furniture, then reached an Elizabethan great hall. Her footsteps raised dust motes, which danced in the dull shafts of light that shone from small leaded panes up high in the walls. The place smelled worse than the coach: of mold and decay as well as mice. Beneath a gray film she could see great swathes of the herringbone parquet floor had been damaged by leaks that must have gone on for years if not decades.
This house would need money poured into it to bring it back to glory. What had the earl's family been thinking, to let it reach such a state?
Expecting at any moment to encounter a servant of whom she could ask the location of the earl, she left the ground level and went up the central staircase. But there was nothing on the first floor but more dusty, empty or partially empty rooms, and sometimes the scuttle of some creature disturbed as she opened a door. Revolting.
When she found a narrow staircase leading even higher up, she only contemplated it for a moment before turning away. It was clearly designed for servants and perhaps the children of the long-vanished household.
She did discover a single pair of adjoining bedrooms that had been cleaned, with wood laid in the fireplaces ready for lighting, and fresh beeswax tapers in candelabra on the mantel. This must be the suite for the Earl and Countess. She examined the bedspread on the more feminine of the two rooms. It was a sad disappointment next to her own smaller bed at home. For all its great size, the covers were yellowed and thin with age. She went to the windows and threw them open to the chill, gray day. Certainly some of her dowry would be spent here, for she refused to sleep in such a state
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