shouldn’t change a thing.”
Mrs. Carstairs’s rooms lay near the kitchens at the end of a long passage next to the butler’s pantry. Her chamber was dark, being below ground level, but she had a small sitting area in addition to a comfortable-looking bed sporting a cheery coverlet. Cecelia took a seat in the second chair, a wooden contraption that swayed alarmingly when she sat in it.
Presently, the scullery maid appeared on the threshold bearing a pot of tea, milk pitcher, and two cups on a tray. Mrs. Carstairs quelled the question in the maid’s eyes with a severe look. She may as well have voiced aloud the order to say nothing to anyone. Then she took her time stirring sugar and milk into her cup. “I’d offer you scones, but Cook is out of the habit of baking such. His lordship never receives anyone who might ask for them.”
Surprising they’d been given actual tea, since such luxuries were normally reserved for guests. But then, Cecelia couldn’t recall Lindenhurst ever being much for tea. Not as long as there was port, brandy, or wine to be had.
Cecelia took a tentative sip from her cup. The liquid inside was scalding hot. “That’s quite all right.” She was far more interested in what the housekeeper might tell her.
Mrs. Carstairs leaned forward in her seat. “If anyone asks, we did not have this conversation.”
“What of the scullery maid?”
“I’m not so concerned about the likes of her. She knows better than to talk. The master asks if you’ve been discussing anything with me, the answer is no. You do not let on that anyone’s said anything.”
“Absolutely.” Cecelia was good at keeping secrets. She had enough of her own; though she wasn’t about to tell Mrs. Carstairs that.
“Now, you asked about the boy, and I can tell you. I remember the day quite clearly. He was just a little thing, not even two years old, and he loved nothing better than running about the grounds as far as he could get.” She paused and sipped at her tea as if she had the entire afternoon and into evening to tell this story.
“His mama would take him along on her constitutionals. Now, you might think such a young child would complain about a long walk, but that boy never did. Well, that winter it were cold. Colder than usual. Enough that the well froze and we had trouble drawing enough water for the household. The pond froze, too, but as cold as it got, her ladyship could not keep that child indoors. It would have been better if she did.”
Cecelia set her cup aside. Somehow the cold of that winter had crept into this underground room, settling uncomfortably along her spine. “Good heavens, what happened?”
“The only person that rightly knows for certain cannot tell us. If she ever had a chance to tell his lordship, he doesn’t hold with people asking. But there was some sort of accident. Next thing I knew, people were shouting for help and running for that pond. It’s not close to the house.”
“I remember.” All too well. “I’ve been invited here as a guest a time or two.”
“Before I came on as housekeeper, then.”
“Before Lord Lindenhurst married.”
“At any rate.” Mrs. Carstairs also pushed her cup aside. “Somehow the boy got out on that pond, and it were cold, but not so cold the ice was strong enough to hold him. He fell through.”
Cecelia pressed her fingers to her lips. “Oh dear.”
“Went under, he did. Went under and stayed there. His mama, God rest her, tried to get the boy out, but she couldn’t do it. Soaked herself through and sickened as a result. And the boy…We were all sure he’d follow his mama to the grave. He lay there insensible for the longest time. It was days and days before he came out of it. Once he got his strength back, we could all see he wasn’t the same. Before the accident, he was hale and hearty as you please, running everywhere. Happy. But after, well, you see how he is now.”
“Good heavens,” Cecelia said faintly. There
Mrs. Carstairs’s rooms lay near the kitchens at the end of a long passage next to the butler’s pantry. Her chamber was dark, being below ground level, but she had a small sitting area in addition to a comfortable-looking bed sporting a cheery coverlet. Cecelia took a seat in the second chair, a wooden contraption that swayed alarmingly when she sat in it.
Presently, the scullery maid appeared on the threshold bearing a pot of tea, milk pitcher, and two cups on a tray. Mrs. Carstairs quelled the question in the maid’s eyes with a severe look. She may as well have voiced aloud the order to say nothing to anyone. Then she took her time stirring sugar and milk into her cup. “I’d offer you scones, but Cook is out of the habit of baking such. His lordship never receives anyone who might ask for them.”
Surprising they’d been given actual tea, since such luxuries were normally reserved for guests. But then, Cecelia couldn’t recall Lindenhurst ever being much for tea. Not as long as there was port, brandy, or wine to be had.
Cecelia took a tentative sip from her cup. The liquid inside was scalding hot. “That’s quite all right.” She was far more interested in what the housekeeper might tell her.
Mrs. Carstairs leaned forward in her seat. “If anyone asks, we did not have this conversation.”
“What of the scullery maid?”
“I’m not so concerned about the likes of her. She knows better than to talk. The master asks if you’ve been discussing anything with me, the answer is no. You do not let on that anyone’s said anything.”
“Absolutely.” Cecelia was good at keeping secrets. She had enough of her own; though she wasn’t about to tell Mrs. Carstairs that.
“Now, you asked about the boy, and I can tell you. I remember the day quite clearly. He was just a little thing, not even two years old, and he loved nothing better than running about the grounds as far as he could get.” She paused and sipped at her tea as if she had the entire afternoon and into evening to tell this story.
“His mama would take him along on her constitutionals. Now, you might think such a young child would complain about a long walk, but that boy never did. Well, that winter it were cold. Colder than usual. Enough that the well froze and we had trouble drawing enough water for the household. The pond froze, too, but as cold as it got, her ladyship could not keep that child indoors. It would have been better if she did.”
Cecelia set her cup aside. Somehow the cold of that winter had crept into this underground room, settling uncomfortably along her spine. “Good heavens, what happened?”
“The only person that rightly knows for certain cannot tell us. If she ever had a chance to tell his lordship, he doesn’t hold with people asking. But there was some sort of accident. Next thing I knew, people were shouting for help and running for that pond. It’s not close to the house.”
“I remember.” All too well. “I’ve been invited here as a guest a time or two.”
“Before I came on as housekeeper, then.”
“Before Lord Lindenhurst married.”
“At any rate.” Mrs. Carstairs also pushed her cup aside. “Somehow the boy got out on that pond, and it were cold, but not so cold the ice was strong enough to hold him. He fell through.”
Cecelia pressed her fingers to her lips. “Oh dear.”
“Went under, he did. Went under and stayed there. His mama, God rest her, tried to get the boy out, but she couldn’t do it. Soaked herself through and sickened as a result. And the boy…We were all sure he’d follow his mama to the grave. He lay there insensible for the longest time. It was days and days before he came out of it. Once he got his strength back, we could all see he wasn’t the same. Before the accident, he was hale and hearty as you please, running everywhere. Happy. But after, well, you see how he is now.”
“Good heavens,” Cecelia said faintly. There
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