bumped over the stone bridge and she saw Paddock Green, fear returned to mock her courage and moisten her brow. Approaching from the east, the house of gray stone loomed on the horizon, dark and imposing, its castle spires nobly reaching toward the sky. She surmised grimly that the house had probably been designed to suit a king but more likely entertained n’er-do-wells, thieves, and homeless spirits, given the earl’s rumored cohorts.
Upon closer view, Patience saw the stone turrets and gargoyles, perched ready to pounce on curious travelers, intrigued architects, or new servants. The tracery on the windows, the lacy parapets, and the unguarded battlements led her to wonder if the earl hid a mad wife behind the dormer attic windows. Her whimsy was no doubt attributable to Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels. Certainly Paddock Green, with its Gothic structure amidst a verdant panorama, created a dramatic setting for the mysterious man who played dangerous games and bought dolls for little girls.
Left at the servants’ entrance, Colette and Patience waited an answer to their knock. A thin, older woman, who had seen the glory of her days past, opened the door wearing an unpleasant frown making her features even less attractive. A cap placed carelessly on her head held fewer gray strands than had initially been arranged. A greasy dirty apron belied her position as the cook, and her face told a tale of having known more regrets than smiles, given her wizened look.
She stared sullenly at the young women before allowing them entrance into the kitchen, a cavernous room with a long pine worktable occupying the place of honor in the center. Since no windows lined the stone walls, the skylight granted the kitchen its only illumination. Sweet bread smells scented the stifling air.
The woman shuffled around them and muttered, “Ye must be the still-room maid and lady’s maid. We were told to expect ye. The one what’s the lady’s maid is to go to the first floor to meet the countess. There’s the steps. The other is to see Mrs. Knockersmith, our housekeeper, in her rooms.”
The cook returned to kneading bread with nary a glance in their direction again.
Colette gathered her belongings and headed for the stairs while Patience waited to be shown to the housekeeper. At the far end of the table, Patience noticed a young boy with large brown eyes in a small round face, whose thick brown hair needed a good brushing. He was dressed in mussied livery, and half-heartedly plucking a chicken and blowing the feathers in the air.
“Lem, show the still-room maid Mrs. Knockersmith’s quarters,” the cook instructed over her shoulder.
The little boy stared suspiciously at Patience before he shrugged, then rose to head out the far door, not waiting for her to follow him.
Patience met her new overseer, Mrs. Knockersmith, a kindly woman in her sixth or seventh decade, in the housekeeper’s rooms where they discussed Patience’s duties and uniform. Afterward, the little footboy showed her to her small attic bedroom. Alone again, wondering how Colette fared, Patience sat on one of the narrow beds and bit her lip in contemplation. She had no idea what to expect when she saw the earl again. How long would she need to play this part?
With a long sigh, she soon returned to the kitchen in a uniform that had once belonged to another maid, which, unfortunately, fit as well as a squirrel would fit in a snakeskin. The bodice pulled across her bosom and the drab dress hung a few inches from the floor. Obviously the previous owner of this uniform must have been a flat-bosomed midget. Patience knew she would need to use a needle and thread to save her dignity, when she had the time.
Hiding her shaking hands in her pockets, she found her lucky onyx and rubbed it. It usually brought her good luck. Her throat dry, she would have given her shoes for a cool glass of water. Would she pass muster?
Mrs. Knockersmith met her in the kitchen where she showed Patience to the distilling room and the pantry. Patience then spent the better part of the day distilling simple waters by placing plants in the cold still to dry them, capturing their fine-flavored spirits. A tedious process for not a large return, but it kept her too busy to think about what her next step would be. As she worked, a light mint scent filled the air.
Later that night, lying in bed and rubbing her sore arms, Patience thought about how to get into the earl’s study. That seemed the likeliest place to start.
The next morning when Patience arrived in the kitchen, she saw no signs of Mrs. Knockersmith, only Mr. Gibbs, the butler, whom she had met at the Mop Fair. He held his hand in a bucket on the table, swearing under his breath.
“You, girl. The earl needs his tea, and I’ve just burned my hand. Go deliver it,” he ordered, indicating the tray on the nearby table. “When you are finished, return to the kitchen.”
Patience widened her eyes, then frowned. This could be her chance, but she hadn’t been hired to serve. Would she make a muck of it? Steady, girl. “Of course, Mr. Gibbs. Ah, one moment. Where is the earl’s study?” She offered a game smile.
Irritatedly he directed her toward the back of the house, and she headed to the lion’s den, the china cups and saucers chinking in her wake. As she approached the closed doors, she winked three times for luck, straightened her shoulders, and knocked loudly.
Outside the door, she could hear the murmur of voices, which halted at her knock. Her heart beat a little faster as she balanced the tray and waited.
At the word “Enter,” Patience took a deep breath and wet her dry lips before opening the door. She had to blink several times to adjust to the dimly lit room and to locate the occupants. Silence reigned briefly when she entered the room, but the men soon took up where they had left off. Lord Londringham reclined in his chair behind his massive desk and gestured to a table in front of his companion, who sat comfortably in a wing chair nearby.
She set the tray on the table and began to pour the tea, her spectacles and mobcap firmly in place.
The earl’s friend told him, “I would like to accompany you to Carstairs’s estate tomorrow morning. There must be some piece of evidence we might uncover which will lead us to his murderer.”
Murderer? Patience could barely breathe. The cup in her hand shook. Was her cousin, dead? The man’s next words confirmed her fears.
“With any luck. You know, I believe his murder was not totally unexpected. What do you think of this young Mandeley having murdered him?”
Her eyes widened in alarm, her breath held in desperate suspense. They suspected Rupert of Lord Carstairs’s murder? In infinite horror, she gulped and dropped the china sugar pot onto the table with a crash. The noise immediately awakened her stupor.
Startled, both men looked her way, then resumed talking. Patience quickly cleaned up the mess, reminding herself that she must go on, no matter the worry that threatened to paralyze her thoughts.
A few harried minutes later, Lord Londringham told her, “No sugar or milk for me.”
Cup and saucer in hand, she warily approached his desk and placed his tea in front of him, half-expecting him to jump from his chair when he recognized her as the woman from the fair. But although she stared as long as she dared at his granite-carved face, he merely glanced impersonally at her before returning his attention to the papers before him.
His friend continued, “Damn difficult to know. It certainly does not do the chap well that he fled with the skirts of dawn. But what possible motive could his cousin have? I checked with a solicitor in the village who states that a distant relative of Carstairs on his mother’s side will inherit.” He leaned back in his chair after instructing Patience that he required sugar.
Londringham
