to be Hammond and Son until fourteen years ago when my father passed on. Now it’s just me. I have help, of course. Too much work for one person to handle.”
She guessed him to be no older than his mid-thirties, so he must have been quite young when he’d taken over the business. He helped her to the ground, where she stood unmoving while he unloaded the baggage. From around the end of the building, a young man joined them, removing his wool cap and giving Violet a lopsided grin.
“This is Henry,” Mr. Hammond told her. “Henry, Miss Bennett.”
“How do, Miss Bennett.”
“Help me take her things upstairs, will you?” Mr. Hammond asked.
Violet hadn’t answered. She stared at the other portion of the building—right beside where she was expected to work and live and sleep. Were there—what did Mr. Hammond call them?—lifeless clients in there now?
Henry grabbed a crate and carried it into the house.
“A lot of people have an aversion to my occupation,” Mr. Hammond said. “Is it going to be a problem for you?”
“It’s just—well—you didn’t mention it in your telegrams.”
He hefted the other crate onto his shoulder. “I didn’t think you’d come if I did.”
She stared at his retreating back.
* * *
Ben Charles made a concerted effort not to grunt or sweat, since he’d been adamant about his ability to lift and tote Miss Bennett’s belongings. The young woman had apparently packed bricks and planned to add an addition to his home while she was here.
He’d fully expected her revulsion regarding his profession and his home, and it had only been a matter of time until he’d seen the reaction on her face. “Henry will return for your bag,” he called over his shoulder.
He experienced a slim measure of guilt for not telling her up front, but she wouldn’t have come. And they needed her. He’d been relieved to find someone to take over the kitchen and he’d been eager for her to arrive. He hadn’t known what he’d expected, but the pretty doe-eyed Violet Bennett wasn’t it. There was something too vulnerable about her. Something that made him shudder when he thought of her traveling alone.
As soon as he’d seen her, he’d felt guilty that he hadn’t gone to get her, as he had for Tessa when she’d come home from boarding school last year. “Thank You for keeping her safe, Lord,” he whispered.
He stopped on the landing midway up the stairs and looked back.
She stood in the enormous tiled entry, staring up at the ceiling where cherubs cavorted with plaster ribbons, then studied the shining oak stairs and banister. She glanced at the east wall of the foyer, and he read the questions on her lovely face. She wondered what was on the other side.
He imagined he saw her shudder.
Henry passed Ben Charles on his way back down and greeted Miss Bennett. “I’ll be right back with your bag.”
She looked up, caught Ben Charles watching her and quickly composed her features. As long as she was a decent cook, a person of good moral character—and Tessa liked her—he intended to do everything in his power to keep Miss Bennett here.
Violet gathered the hem of her traveling skirt and climbed the stairs, her aching feet protesting. At the top was an open room with an arched and draped window facing the rear of the house, and framing a white-blanketed lawn and the copse of trees beyond. The room held floor-to-ceiling shelves of books and assorted plush furniture.
“Tessa!” Mr. Hammond called, startling Violet.
“No need to shout, Ben Charles. I’m right here.” A slim young woman stood from one of the chairs facing the window and rested a book on the seat she’d vacated. Her rose-colored dress was nicer than anything Violet owned, though it was simple in design. The girl walked forward.
“This is Miss Bennett.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Tessa said, without a smile. “Your room is ready. My brother gave you the one next to mine.”
Violet followed her, and when Tessa stepped back, she entered first. Two windows opened to the west, taking advantage of the side of the structure away from the funeral parlor, thank goodness. At least she would be on the opposite side.
A small fireplace burned, warming the room and adding a comforting hiss. The walls were papered with a pale peach wide scrolling pattern. One wall held a bureau. Handkerchief drawers held lamps and the top a trifold mirror. On the opposite wall stood a tall armoire with carved roses adorning the doors and drawers.
The head of the bed, with its white wrought-iron spindles, stood between the windows, and a calico spread in colors matching the throw rugs was topped with comfortable-looking pillows. A plump chair stood near the fireplace.
The room was so bright and welcoming, Violet had difficulty imagining it as part of the funeral parlor.
“Can you start tomorrow?” Ben Charles asked from behind her.
She turned to face him. “What about supper this evening?”
“We’ll make do like we have been.”
“I’m here now, and we will all need a meal. I’d feel better if you let me start right away.”
“You’ll get no argument from me. Poke around the pantry and the kitchen. As soon as you want to shop, either Henry or I will take you. There’s a tub and running water in the water closet across the hall. Also a small coal stove to heat a kettle of hot water. I’ll start the stove now.”
“I can’t imagine I’ll want for anything.” The accommodations were far more luxurious than anything she was used to.
Henry entered with her bag. He set it down and used a hammer he’d brought along to remove the lids from the crates. Once he’d finished, she thanked him and he exited silently.
“Tessa will help you unpack.” Ben Charles turned and left the room, closing the door behind him.
Tessa studied the door with an uncertain expression.
“You don’t have to stay.” Violet sensed her discomfort and she wondered how Tessa felt about Violet coming to live in their home. “I can take care of my things if you want to run along.”
The girl took a few steps into the center of the room. “I don’t mind.”
She remained quiet as Violet opened the bag and stacked clothing on the bed.
“That’s a pretty watch,” she said finally, as Violet placed her undergarments in a drawer.
Violet stopped to touch the timepiece she wore. “It was my mother’s.”
“Has she passed on?”
Her brother had used the same phrase. “Yes.”
“My mother passed on when I was a baby.
