instructions.” She waved a hand in a manner that used to send servants scurrying. “So if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Of course not. Wait here a moment.” She disappeared into Lindenhurst’s study—not scurrying exactly. The woman moved at a ponderous gait in keeping with her bulk.
Presently, she returned with a pen, a pot of ink, and several sheets of paper. Heavy vellum. Quality stock, Cecelia ascertained the moment she took the sheets in hand. She could use some of this and write to Miss Crump for advice, or she could if she had the woman’s direction. “Would you happen to know what agency Lord Lindenhurst used to hire the other governesses?”
Lindenhurst will toss you out before a message has a chance to reach London—that is, if you can convince him to frank a letter for you.
She pushed the annoying voice in her head aside. Blasted reason. She had no use for it. She must move forward with the intention of retaining this position permanently. As for the postage, she’d find her way around that when the time came.
“I expect I can find that out for you, miss.”
“Thank you.” And now she’d opened the door to ask about Jeremy.
When Cecelia didn’t turn for the nursery right away, the housekeeper blinked. “Will there be anything else? I have duties to attend.”
“Mrs. Carstairs, might I ask you what lies between Lord Lindenhurst and his son that he won’t even refer to the boy by name?”
The housekeeper pursed her lips. “You might ask, but it’s more than my job is worth to discuss such things. Lord Lindenhurst cannot abide gossip.”
“But surely it’s not a matter of gossip in my case. If I understood what Jeremy’s problems entail, I could educate him better.”
Mrs. Carstairs stared hard at her for a moment. “And which problems would those be?”
Cecelia cocked her head. Surely the other woman wasn’t about to deny the obvious. “Unless he has something to hold on to, he cannot seem to walk more than two steps without falling. Has he always been this way?”
Once again, Mrs. Carstairs rolled her lips inward, possibly reining in the words that could lead to her dismissal. “Do you realize it’s only me and the butler who have been on staff since before the boy was born?”
“You’ve been here so long?” Cecelia didn’t recall this woman or the butler from years before, but perhaps these servants had come along with Lindenhurst’s marriage.
“I have. He’s replaced everyone else, some more than once, from the scullery maids to the stable boys to the cook and all for discussing matters he wants kept quiet. If he sends me packing as well, I won’t find another position. Not at my age.” That reply, along with Mrs. Carstairs’s expression, told Cecelia a great deal.
“Why should Lord Lindenhurst forbid anyone discussing his son’s condition when it’s so clear to anyone with eyes?”
“Is it not enough to know that he prefers no one discuss it and leave it at that?”
Cecelia crossed her arms. “No, it is not. Not when anything you can tell me might be helpful in the performance of my job. The job his lordship hired me to do. Please,” she added when the housekeeper’s expression remained immutable. “You are not the only one who cannot afford to lose her position here. Tell me as little as you like, but give me something to go on. For the boy’s sake, if nothing else. This endless parade of governesses cannot be good for him. When will he ever learn he can trust in someone?”
Something in Mrs. Carstairs’s expression thawed, if only somewhat. But thank goodness for that small concession. The older woman craned her neck and glanced up and down the hall. “Why don’t we take a spot of tea? Unless I’m keeping you from more pressing duties?” She added that last all too hopefully.
“My position here is already precarious.” But she still had until her brother’s visit at least before she’d have to pack her meager belongings. “A spot of tea
“Of course not. Wait here a moment.” She disappeared into Lindenhurst’s study—not scurrying exactly. The woman moved at a ponderous gait in keeping with her bulk.
Presently, she returned with a pen, a pot of ink, and several sheets of paper. Heavy vellum. Quality stock, Cecelia ascertained the moment she took the sheets in hand. She could use some of this and write to Miss Crump for advice, or she could if she had the woman’s direction. “Would you happen to know what agency Lord Lindenhurst used to hire the other governesses?”
Lindenhurst will toss you out before a message has a chance to reach London—that is, if you can convince him to frank a letter for you.
She pushed the annoying voice in her head aside. Blasted reason. She had no use for it. She must move forward with the intention of retaining this position permanently. As for the postage, she’d find her way around that when the time came.
“I expect I can find that out for you, miss.”
“Thank you.” And now she’d opened the door to ask about Jeremy.
When Cecelia didn’t turn for the nursery right away, the housekeeper blinked. “Will there be anything else? I have duties to attend.”
“Mrs. Carstairs, might I ask you what lies between Lord Lindenhurst and his son that he won’t even refer to the boy by name?”
The housekeeper pursed her lips. “You might ask, but it’s more than my job is worth to discuss such things. Lord Lindenhurst cannot abide gossip.”
“But surely it’s not a matter of gossip in my case. If I understood what Jeremy’s problems entail, I could educate him better.”
Mrs. Carstairs stared hard at her for a moment. “And which problems would those be?”
Cecelia cocked her head. Surely the other woman wasn’t about to deny the obvious. “Unless he has something to hold on to, he cannot seem to walk more than two steps without falling. Has he always been this way?”
Once again, Mrs. Carstairs rolled her lips inward, possibly reining in the words that could lead to her dismissal. “Do you realize it’s only me and the butler who have been on staff since before the boy was born?”
“You’ve been here so long?” Cecelia didn’t recall this woman or the butler from years before, but perhaps these servants had come along with Lindenhurst’s marriage.
“I have. He’s replaced everyone else, some more than once, from the scullery maids to the stable boys to the cook and all for discussing matters he wants kept quiet. If he sends me packing as well, I won’t find another position. Not at my age.” That reply, along with Mrs. Carstairs’s expression, told Cecelia a great deal.
“Why should Lord Lindenhurst forbid anyone discussing his son’s condition when it’s so clear to anyone with eyes?”
“Is it not enough to know that he prefers no one discuss it and leave it at that?”
Cecelia crossed her arms. “No, it is not. Not when anything you can tell me might be helpful in the performance of my job. The job his lordship hired me to do. Please,” she added when the housekeeper’s expression remained immutable. “You are not the only one who cannot afford to lose her position here. Tell me as little as you like, but give me something to go on. For the boy’s sake, if nothing else. This endless parade of governesses cannot be good for him. When will he ever learn he can trust in someone?”
Something in Mrs. Carstairs’s expression thawed, if only somewhat. But thank goodness for that small concession. The older woman craned her neck and glanced up and down the hall. “Why don’t we take a spot of tea? Unless I’m keeping you from more pressing duties?” She added that last all too hopefully.
“My position here is already precarious.” But she still had until her brother’s visit at least before she’d have to pack her meager belongings. “A spot of tea
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