Manor of Secrets (6 page)

“Why did you leave?” she asked her mother. Janie knew she’d been born at The Manor. She knew her parents had left shortly after. But she couldn’t imagine doing it herself.

“It was your father.” Mrs. Seward’s eyes sharpened, and she downed the rest of her tea in one gulp, wincing from the heat.

“He didn’t want to stay?” Janie pursued.

“Lady Diane didn’t want the rest of the servants getting any ideas. She doesn’t want her servants getting married. Having children.”

Janie nodded. The rules had become stricter in the sixteen years since her birth. Now a kiss would get you fired without reference.

“Besides,” her mother said, more quietly, “I wanted to be able to raise you myself.”

Again, Janie held her tongue. Because that wasn’t what happened. Her coachman father had decided to join the Army. And the better life he promised had become a broken one, with Mrs. Seward working at one country house after another and Janie just one more mouth to feed on her uncle’s farm.

“Well,” she said instead, “we’re together now. And we’re here.”

Mrs. Seward nodded. “But maybe not for long.”

“What do you mean?” Fear grabbed her chest like a vise, making it almost impossible to breathe.

“It may all come to nothing.” Mrs. Seward didn’t look at her, just stood and turned back to the kitchen.

“What may come to nothing?” Janie managed to squeeze the words past the anxiety in her throat.

“I’ve been offered another position.” Mrs. Seward walked down the basement steps and stopped at the dresser just inside the kitchen door to pull out a clean apron and cap.

Janie couldn’t believe she was being so casual. That she had dropped this bomb into Janie’s lap and wouldn’t even acknowledge that Janie’s world was falling apart with the explosion of it.

“Where?” she gasped. “With whom? Doing what?”

But an answer came to her immediately. Lawrence had said Lady Beatrice wanted a cook.

“
Shhh
,” Mrs. Seward said. “If Lady Diane even gets a hint of this, I will be out on my ear, do you hear me?”

“It sounds like you’re going anyway,” Janie snapped. “Why should you care?”

Mrs. Seward turned to face her, fists on her hips.

“There’s no need to be like that, my girl.”

Janie felt a gush of remorse — even shame — but hardened herself against it. She settled her mouth into a firm line.

“And when were you going to tell me?” she asked. “When we left? Or when you left me behind?”

Janie couldn’t decide which would be worse.

“You’re nearly grown, Janie Seward,” her mother said sharply. “And you already know how the world works. I go where the work is.”

“There’s work
here
.”

“There’s more than just work here, Janie,” her mother said. “There are memories. I never should have come back.”

Janie forced herself to believe she didn’t care about her mother’s memories. She cared about her own. Life at The Manor had provided her with memories she wanted to keep. With friends, like Harry.

And Lawrence.

“And what about me?” Janie couldn’t stop her voice from breaking. “Did you not concern yourself at all with me? With how I would feel about this?”

She’d already spent so much time away from her mother. She couldn’t imagine spending more. But by the same token, she couldn’t leave the only home she’d ever known. The kitchen was her sanctuary.

Mrs. Seward unfolded her arms and wrapped them around Janie. She smoothed the back of her cap and pressed Janie’s face into her shoulder.

“Of course I’d never want to leave you,” she said. But Janie heard what she didn’t say. That leaving her might be necessary, whether she wanted it or not.

C
harlotte knew enough not to watch every move Lawrence made while he was serving the tea. But she did see the fabric of his deep blue livery jacket slide across his shoulders. And catch the smile he flashed at her before he left.

Lady Diane sat beneath the great north-facing window with her back to the sky and the hills, only her head inclined over the desk where she sat composing invitations to a Saturday-to-Monday house party.

The rest of her mother’s body was so upright. So stiff.

“Is Aunt Beatrice going to join us?” Charlotte sat up straighter and tried to incline her head the way her mother did. When a twinge shot up the back of her neck, she rubbed it and sighed. She would never meet her mother’s full approval.

“Don’t sigh, Charlotte, it’s very unbecoming.” Lady Diane
didn’t look up from her desk. “My sister has gone out walking. Why she doesn’t
ride
, I’ve no idea.”

It seemed
no one
could meet her full approval. So why try?

Charlotte slouched back over her worn copy of
The Return of Sherlock Holmes
. She thought she might go mad. Her mother had requested her presence all day long. First, to go over the long and tedious weekend menus. Lady Diane kept going on about Lord Broadhurst’s elegant taste in cuisine and how important it was for Charlotte to understand. Really, who cared if one had a cream-based pudding or a fruit-based one?

Then all afternoon was spent visiting neighbors. Leaving a calling card at one house, not even getting out of the green Daimler motorcar at another. Every visit strictly defined by social status and tradition.

And now tea.

Charlotte looked to her book for inspiration. Holmes and Watson always found a way out of a situation. Though even in her wildest imaginings, Charlotte couldn’t picture herself climbing over a garden wall to escape her mother.

She could imagine Janie doing it. During her few moments alone, Charlotte had even begun a story in which Janie was an adventuress, facing valiantly most dire of situations.

That’s why she needed Janie to help her find out about Aunt Beatrice.

Charlotte set her book down on the little side table with its spindly, decorated legs. She rose from the shiny damask of the upholstered chair and brushed her skirts.

“Mother,” she said, and cleared her throat when her mother didn’t look up.

“What a horrid noise, Charlotte. Really.”

Lady Diane’s eyes remained on her letter, but at least Charlotte knew she was listening.

“Mother, I’m going to go …” Charlotte’s nerve left her. “… for a walk.”

Lady Diane looked up at that. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“I’d like some fresh air.”

Lady Diane frowned. Lately, she seemed to frown perpetually.

“You don’t want to turn a dreadful brown before the shooting party. Lord Broadhurst will be here.”

All the more reason to turn a dreadful brown,
Charlotte thought. If it might convince Andrew Broadhurst she wasn’t marriage material, she would spend all day lying on a chaise with her face upturned.

“Of course, Mother,” she said. “I promise I won’t let the sun touch my face.” She neglected to say this was because she wouldn’t be leaving the house.

Lady Diane looked ready to argue, but an echo of voices from the marble hall interrupted them. Lawrence strode into the room and bowed.

“Your Ladyship, Lady Beatrice has returned from her walk and requested tea.”

Lady Diane actually smiled at the footman. Charlotte was shocked. It seemed no one was immune to Lawrence’s charms.

“She may join me in here, Lawrence,” Lady Diane said evenly, and then turned her smile on Charlotte, but it quickly disappeared. “Now don’t sulk, Charlotte. Go out. Wear a hat. And don’t leave the garden.”

Charlotte silently cursed her poor timing. “I can stay in if you’d rather.” Even with her mother there, she could surely find out a few things about Beatrice if they were able to be in the same room together.

“No, fresh air is good for you. Go now.”

End of discussion.

Charlotte ran up the stairs, hoping to catch her aunt in the hall, but all the doors were closed. So she continued on down the servants’ staircase. She didn’t have a lamp or a candle, so she left the door open to let the hall light spill down the stairs.

The kitchen was like what Charlotte imagined a Turkish bath would be. Steam hung in the air, and tepid water dripped from the ceiling. Mrs. Seward and Janie were bathed in sweat,
their aprons limp despite the starch and their drab gray dresses spotted with water and grease.

“I told you to open the windows!” Mrs. Seward sighed, wiping the back of a hand over her forehead.

“I did,” Janie muttered, not looking at her mother.

Charlotte took in the entire scene. The steam came from the scullery as well as from the kettle and other pots bubbling on the coal-fired stove. One end of the scarred kitchen table was a mess of sticky flour, and the other end hosted a pile of brightly colored vegetables, some of which Charlotte didn’t even recognize. Janie stood over them, looking overwhelmed.

Charlotte reconsidered her lie to her mother and decided that perhaps a walk would be the best thing for her. She was unlikely to be welcomed here.

She turned into the passageway and ran immediately into Lawrence. The jacket and waistcoat of his livery were unbuttoned. When he spotted her, the tray of newly polished silver he carried tipped dangerously, sending a saltcellar and two candlesticks crashing to the floor.

“
Now
what?” Mrs. Seward bellowed from the kitchen.

“Lady Charlotte.” Lawrence hesitated, trying to balance the tray on one arm while he buttoned his waistcoat with the other hand. Trying not to stare, Charlotte crouched down to pick up the saltcellar. One side was dented.

“Oh, laws.”

Charlotte looked up to see Mrs. Seward smoothing her apron and straightening her cap. She reached for the tray.

“Get away with you, Lawrence. Wandering around half-dressed. What were you thinking?”

Lawrence raised an eyebrow at Mrs. Seward — or was it at Janie just behind her? — and grinned. He bowed to Charlotte and spun on his heel to retreat to the butler’s pantry.

“Gracious.” Mrs. Seward turned back to the steam of the kitchen. “Janie, pick up the silver. It will have to be done again.”

Charlotte held out the saltcellar mutely. She hadn’t meant to cause more work. More trouble.

“I didn’t …” she began, but had no idea how to continue. The kitchen looked alarmingly busy. But Janie had said that gossip traveled faster than fire downstairs. Surely Charlotte would be able to find something out.

“What can we do for you, Lady Charlotte?” Mrs. Seward asked, handing Janie the tray, which wobbled again. Charlotte’s eyes widened in horror. It must be very heavy. And a tiny thing like Janie seemed unlikely to be able to handle it.

Janie glowered at her.

“I just …” Charlotte stood up straighter, trying to be more like her mother. “I wondered how things were going.” That sounded stupid. “For dinner.”

Mrs. Seward stopped moving for a moment — something she didn’t seem to do very often. Then she sighed almost imperceptibly.

“Did your mother have any late requests, Lady Charlotte?”

The question was posed graciously. As if there were nothing Mrs. Seward would like better than to make one more dish.

“No!” Charlotte stuttered. “I just … wondered.”

Mother and daughter exchanged a look, and Janie went back to her vegetables. She picked up a tiny red fruit by its stem and looked at it dubiously.

“What are you making?” Charlotte asked, watching her.

“Curry.” Mrs. Seward retreated to the other end of the table and swept the clots of flour into a bucket and then put the bucket under the table. Everything was done with effortlessness and grace — like a dance.

Charlotte couldn’t imagine her mother ordering curry. Something so … foreign. Other people had curry. Sometimes even for breakfast. But her mother barely tolerated kedgeree. Charlotte took a step into the steaming kitchen. The steam smelled like laundry and tea and meat pie from luncheon. Not like another country.

“From India?” she asked, moving so her back was up against the wall. She didn’t want to risk getting in the way again.

Mrs. Seward huffed. “Your aunt requested it.”

Charlotte didn’t have time to ask any questions because a boy stepped in through the door carrying two pairs of shoes in his right hand and one in his left. He wasn’t terribly tall, but had broad shoulders that stretched the fabric of his cambric shirt. His light brown hair was astonishingly curly, but it looked soft. The kind you’d want to touch. He walked up behind Janie, looking avidly between Janie’s face and the little fruit she held between her thumb and forefinger.

“So, have you eaten one yet?”

He tucked the pair of shoes under his right arm and reached his left hand out. Janie snatched the fruit away.

“Your hands are filthy, Harry,” she chided. “Covered in boot black.”

He turned away, lining up the shoes next to the scullery door, and went to the sink beneath the window.

“I thought you’d give it a go before I dared you,” he said, washing his hands, his voice quick with gaiety. To Charlotte it sounded a little false. Like he was covering up his embarrassment.

“Because we all know how well things go for me when I do one of your dares, Harry Peasgood.” Janie barely looked up from the other vegetables she was slicing.