Chapter One 

 

“Miss Everly, surely you cannot mean to refuse me a third time.”

Amelia’s needle paused mid-stitch above the embroidered rosebud she’d been coaxing into bloom for the better part of an hour. Through the mullioned windows of the vicarage drawing room, morning sunlight painted geometric patterns across the carpet—a relic from better days when her mother still lived and the living provided enough for small luxuries. She did not look up at Mr. John Harding, who stood before the cold fireplace as though he owned it, his new bottle-green coat straining slightly across shoulders that had grown broader with prosperity and good living.

“I believe, Mr. Harding,” she said, resuming her needlework with deliberate calm, “that refusing you twice should have sufficiently conveyed my meaning. The third time merely confirms what a woman of sense might call a pattern.”

The drawing room, which portrayed pastoral scenes of shepherdesses in perpetual, cheerful pursuit of indifferent sheep, had witnessed this scene before. Twice before, to be precise. Yet Mr. Harding seemed convinced that feminine reluctance was merely a dance requiring the correct number of steps before capitulation. Amelia found herself wondering if perhaps the wallpaper shepherdesses had the right idea—perpetual chase with no intention of catching anything.

“You jest, as always.” Mr. Harding’s laugh held the forced quality of a man who rarely found anything genuinely amusing but had been told that ladies appreciated humor. He moved from the fireplace to stand closer to her chair, bringing with him the overpowering scent of his bergamot pomade; expensive, like everything else about his appearance, from his elaborately tied cravat to his polished Hessian boots that reflected the morning light with militant precision. “But surely even you must see the advantages of my suit. I am not without means, Miss Everly. My fortune…”

“Is well-documented,” Amelia interrupted gently, finally raising her eyes to meet his. They were pale blue, those eyes of hers, the sort that foolish men mistook for docile until they noticed the intelligence sparking within them like flint against steel. “You have, if memory serves, enumerated your assets with the thoroughness of an estate agent. Twice.”

And both times, she thought, with all the romance of an inventory list.

The door opened just then, admitting their maid-of-all-work, Sarah, with the tea service. The girl, no more than fifteen and perpetually flushed from racing between kitchen and drawing room, nursery and garden, set down the tray with a clatter that made the delicate china (her late mother’s pride) sing in alarm. Amelia smiled her thanks, noting how Sarah’s eyes darted nervously between the visitor and her mistress. The entire household knew why Mr. Harding called so regularly, and Amelia suspected the servants’ hall had a robust betting pool regarding the outcome of today’s interview.

“Shall I pour, Miss Amelia?” Sarah asked, already reaching for the pot.

“Thank you, Sarah, but I shall manage.”

The girl bobbed a curtsey and fled, no doubt to report to the Cook that Mr. Harding was trying once again, the persistent creature.

Amelia rose, setting aside her embroidery hoop with its half-finished roses that would eventually adorn a cushion for the church bazaar and which was her contribution to the eternal fundraising efforts for the parish poor. She moved to the tea table with the practiced grace her mother had drilled into her despite their reduced circumstances. A lady, her mother used to say, is defined not by her fortune but by her deportment. Though Amelia often wondered if deportment could pay the bills.

“How do you take your tea, Mr. Harding?” she asked, though she knew perfectly well he preferred it with an unconscionable amount of sugar and just a drop of milk. 

“You know how I take it,” he said, his tone suggesting this was somehow proof of their compatibility. “Just as I know you prefer yours with lemon, no sugar. You see how well-suited we are? I notice these small things about you, Miss Everly.”

Small things, Amelia thought as she prepared his tea with mechanical precision. Indeed, I suppose my tea preferences are the foundation upon which all great marriages are built.

She handed him his cup and saucer, careful to avoid the brush of fingers he clearly intended. Mr. Harding was not an ill-looking man, she supposed, assessing him with the detachment of a naturalist examining a specimen. His features were regular, his hair still abundant though retreating slightly at the temples, his figure that of a man who enjoyed his meals but was not fat. He was thirty-three to her four and twenty, a reasonable age difference by society’s standards. In accordance to society’s expectations, as her practical Aunt Prudence never tired of pointing out in her monthly letters, he was an entirely suitable match for a poor vicar’s daughter.

The trouble was, Amelia had never been one for living her life by the rules.

“Your father,” Mr. Harding began, settling himself uninvited into the chair opposite hers, her father’s chair, actually, though Papa was out visiting the sick this morning, surely sees the wisdom of this match. I believe he must worry about his daughter’s future, particularly one without…” He paused, apparently realizing that mentioning her lack of dowry might not advance his cause.

“Without prospects?” Amelia supplied helpfully, sipping her tea with perfect equanimity. “Without fortune? Without the accomplishments that might attract a more elevated suitor? Please, Mr. Harding, do not spare my feelings. I assure you, I am perfectly aware of my circumstances.”

He had the grace to color slightly, the flush creeping above his meticulously starched collar. “I merely meant to say that your father, being a practical man, must recognize the security I offer. My establishment in Millbrook House is very comfortable—eight bedrooms, a morning room with eastern exposure, gardens that, while not extensive, are well-maintained. My income from the mills…”

“Provides you three thousand a year, I believe you mentioned. Twice.”

“Three thousand five hundred,” he corrected with evident pride. “The new contracts with Manchester have been most profitable.”

Amelia set down her teacup with a gentle click against the saucer, her mother’s wedding china, she remembered suddenly, a gift from better-off relations who had since forgotten their poor country cousins existed. How fitting to be discussing a loveless marriage over these relics of a love match that had descended into genteel poverty.

“Mr. Harding,” she began, but he raised his hand in a gesture presumably meant to be commanding but which succeeded only in nearly upsetting his tea.

“Allow me to finish, Miss Everly. I know I am not..” he searched for words,”not perhaps what young ladies dream of. I am not titled, nor am I possessed of what the novels call a romantic temperament. But I am steady. Respectable. I can provide you with comfort, security, a position in society higher than,” Again, he caught himself.

“Higher than that of an impoverished vicar’s daughter?” Amelia’s voice remained pleasant, conversational even, but something in her tone made him shift in his chair. “You are quite right, of course. Marriage to you would elevate me considerably in the world’s eyes. I should have my own carriage, no doubt. New gowns that haven’t been turned twice and re-trimmed with ribbon bought at a discount. I could serve tea from a complete set rather than one cobbled together from three different patterns.” She gestured to their decidedly mismatched table settings. “I should be Mrs. Harding of Millbrook House, and all the matrons who now pity me would be obliged to leave their cards.”

Hope dawned in his eyes like sunrise over a particularly tedious landscape. “Exactly! You understand perfectly. And I would not be an unreasonable husband, Miss Everly. You could continue your charitable work, within reason. Perhaps not the teaching at the parish school, it wouldn’t be seemly for my wife to work, but visiting the poor, certainly. With a footman in attendance, of course.”

Of course, Amelia thought. Because heaven forbid Mrs. Harding should walk through the village unaccompanied, as Miss Everly has done these twenty-four years without incident.

She rose from her chair, a signal that should have indicated the interview’s conclusion. Mr. Harding, however, remained seated, apparently interpreting her movement as feminine agitation requiring masculine reassurance.

“I know this must be overwhelming,” he said with what he clearly believed was sensitivity. “Young ladies are prone to excessive sensibility when faced with life-altering decisions. Perhaps you need time to compose yourself?”

Amelia moved to the window, looking out at the vicarage garden where her father’s roses climbed the stone wall in glorious profusion despite their amateur tending. Those roses, she reflected, bloomed where they chose, wild and lovely, without asking anyone’s permission or requiring anyone’s approval. Her mother had planted them the year Amelia was born, and they were growing more beautiful each year in their cheerful rebellion against proper garden management.

“Mr. Harding,” she said without turning from the window, “what do you suppose makes a marriage happy?”

The question clearly caught him off-guard. She heard the rattle of his cup against saucer, the creak of the chair as he shifted. “Why…comfort, of course. Mutual respect. Proper management of household affairs. Children, in due course.”

“And affection?” She turned to face him then, genuinely curious about his answer.

He looked genuinely puzzled. “Affection? Well, I suppose—that is, I have great regard for you, Miss Everly. Your manner is pleasing, your reputation spotless, your domestic capabilities well-proven. What more affection could be required?”

Amelia almost pitied him then. Almost. Here was a man who viewed marriage as a business arrangement with conjugal benefits, who saw a wife as something between a superior housekeeper and a decorative asset. He wasn’t cruel, she supposed. He wouldn’t beat her or squander her portion (if she had one) on gambling. He would provide the life he promised; comfortable, respectable, and utterly suffocating.

“You regard me,” she said slowly, as though tasting the words, “as one might regard a well-trained animal or a particularly efficient clock.”

“Miss Everly!” His offense was genuine. “I offer you sincere attachment.”

“You offer me a position,” she corrected gently. “As one might advertise in a paper: ‘Wanted, one wife. Must be presentable, and possessed of domestic capabilities. Dowry not required but breeding essential. Romantic sensibilities discouraged. Apply within.'”

He stood abruptly, his face flushing from pink to an alarming puce. “You jest at my expense.”

“I do not jest, Mr. Harding. I merely clarify our situation. You seek a wife who will manage your household, bear your children, and reflect credit upon your rising status. These are not unreasonable desires. Many women would be grateful for such an offer.”

“But not you.” It wasn’t a question.

“No,” she said simply. “Not I.”

For a moment, they stood facing each other across the worn carpet, he in his expensive new clothes that proclaimed his prosperity, she in her morning dress of sprigged muslin that had been twice turned and still showed signs of careful mending at the hem. The morning light was unkind to them both, exposing the gradual surrender of his jawline and a waistline no longer inclined to restraint and highlighting the shadows under her eyes from too many late nights helping her father with his sermons and correspondence.

“You are a fool, Miss Everly.” His tone had shifted from wounded to cold. “You are four-and-twenty, nearly a spinster. Your father’s living provides barely two hundred pounds per annum, and when he dies, you will have nothing. Nothing! The new vicar will want the house for his own family, and where will you be then? Taking in sewing? Becoming a governess to other people’s children? Or worse…” his eyes glittered with malicious satisfaction, “…becoming a companion to some decrepit old lady who will treat you as little better than a servant?”

Amelia’s hands tightened involuntarily, but she kept her voice level. “All distinct possibilities, Mr. Harding. Yet any of them seem preferable to a marriage without affection, respect, or understanding.”

“Affection!” He spat the word as though it tasted foul. “Respect! Understanding! Pretty words from poetry and novels that turn young women’s heads. You think yourself too fine for me, don’t you? The vicar’s daughter with her airs and graces, her Latin and French, her watercolors and embroidery. But what good do any of those accomplishments do you without money? Without position?”

“They make me myself,” Amelia said quietly. “Which is all I have and all I intend to keep.”

Mr. Harding grabbed his hat and gloves from the side table where Sarah had placed them, his movements sharp with fury. “You will regret this decision, Miss Everly, remember my words. When you are old and alone, when you are fetching and carrying for your betters, when you realise what comfort you have thrown away for the sake of your precious pride…you will remember this day.”

“I daresay I shall,” Amelia agreed. “Though perhaps not in the way you imagine.”

He paused at the door, his hand on the handle, and turned back with a smile that made her stomach clench—not with fear, exactly, but with the recognition of a man whose pride had been wounded beyond repair.

“You know,” he said conversationally, as though discussing the weather, “people talk about you in the village. The vicar’s daughter who thinks herself too good for honest men. Who spends too much time with her books, who teaches the village children to read when they should be working, who walks about unchaperoned as though she were a lady of means rather than what she is.”

“And what am I, Mr. Harding?”

“Nobody,” he said with satisfaction. “You are nobody, Miss Everly. And I shall make quite certain everyone remembers it.”

The door closed behind him with a decisive click that reverberated through the quiet house. Amelia stood perfectly still for a long moment, listening to his footsteps on the gravel drive, the creak of his carriage springs, the clatter of wheels bearing him away. Only when the sound had faded entirely did she allow herself to sink into the nearest chair, her legs suddenly unsteady.

Nobody. Well, he wasn’t entirely wrong, was he? In the eyes of society, she was indeed nobody; no fortune, no connections, no prospects beyond her father’s life. She was accomplished in all the ways that didn’t matter and lacking in the only one that did: money.

A soft knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. “Come,” she called, expecting Sarah with questions about luncheon.

But it was her father who entered, still in his greatcoat, his kind face creased with concern. The Reverend Mr. Thomas Everly was a man who carried his sixty years lightly, his hair still more brown than gray, his figure kept lean by his habit of walking miles each day to visit parishioners. He took one look at his daughter’s face and sighed.

“I passed Mr. Harding on the drive. He looked rather like a man who had stood too long at the edge of ruin.”

Despite everything, Amelia laughed. “Then perhaps it is time he stepped over.”

Her father settled into the chair Mr. Harding had vacated, his movements careful. The pain in his bones had been troubling him lately, though he tried to hide it. Another worry to add to Amelia’s growing collection.

“I suppose he offered again?”

“With all the romance of a man who does not know what romance is.”

“And you refused him.”

“With all the firmness of a lady who prefers poverty to pomposity.”

Her father’s smile was rueful. “Oh, my dear girl. Your mother would be proud of you. And worried sick.”

Amelia moved to pour him tea, noting they were down to their last good leaves. Next month, it would be back to the cheaper blend that tasted of dust and disappointment. “Mama always said it was better to be alone than to be with someone who didn’t value you.”

“She did say that,” her father agreed, accepting the cup gratefully. “Of course, she said it after accepting my proposal, which rather undermined her credibility on the subject of prudent marriages.”

They shared a smile of perfect understanding. Amelia’s parents had married for love, against the wishes of her mother’s family, who had higher aspirations for their daughter than a country vicar. The estrangement had never healed, and when consumption had taken her mother ten years ago, none of those disapproving relations had attended the funeral. Amelia had learned early that love matches, while admirable in principle, could be costly in practice.

“He threatened me, rather,” she said, aiming for lightness. “Suggested I would die alone and friendless, fetching and carrying for my betters.”

Her father’s face darkened. “Did he indeed? The presumptuous man. As though honest work were something shameful. As though being a companion or governess were worse than being shackled to a man who sees his wife as a particularly useful piece of furniture.”

“Papa,” Amelia said gently, “we must be practical. He wasn’t entirely wrong about our circumstances. When you…that is, the next vicar will need the house. And I have no illusions about my prospects. I am too old and too poor for most men, and apparently too particular for the rest.”

Her father set down his teacup and reached for her hand, his fingers warm and slightly ink-stained from his morning’s correspondence. “Amelia, my dear, I have not been entirely idle in considering your future. This morning’s post brought something that might interest you.”

He withdrew a letter from his coat pocket, the paper thick and expensive, the seal unfamiliar. “It’s from Mrs. Middleton, do you remember her? Your mother’s friend who married well and moved to Yorkshire?”

Amelia did remember, vaguely. A laughing lady who had visited once when Amelia was small, bringing exotic gifts like candied violets and a silk fan painted with Chinese scenes. She had wept terribly at Mama’s funeral, promising to keep in touch, though like most such promises, it had faded with time and distance.

“She writes that the Dowager Countess of Wynthorpe seeks a companion. The position is at Hawthorne Hall in Derbyshire; room, board, and fifty pounds per annum, with time allowed for personal correspondence and pursuits. Mrs. Middleton thought of you immediately, she says, remembering your mother’s praise of your accomplishments and temperament.”

Amelia took the letter with fingers that trembled slightly. Fifty pounds per annum—more than she’d dared hope for. It would allow her to save something, perhaps, for her eventual old age. And Derbyshire was far enough from here that Mr. Harding’s threats would carry no weight.

She read through the letter quickly, noting Mrs. Middleton’s careful phrases. The Dowager Countess was “particular in her requirements” but “generous to those who pleased her.” The position had been “difficult to fill” due to the “remote location” and “the family’s preference for privacy.” All euphemisms, Amelia suspected, for something Mrs. Middleton didn’t quite want to spell out.

“I’ve heard of Hawthorne Hall,” her father said carefully. “The Earl of Wynthorpe is… reclusive.”

“Reclusive.” Amelia looked up from the letter. “That’s one word for it. The villagers at the market last month were calling him the Beast Earl. Apparently, he hasn’t been seen in society since returning from the war.”

“Indeed,” her father confirmed. “He was at the war. Quite distinguished himself, by all accounts, before…” He paused.

“Before?”

“Before he was injured. Rather severely, one understands. There was also some matter of a broken betrothal, though the details were hushed up. The young lady in question married someone else with unseemly haste.”

Amelia folded the letter carefully, her mind already racing. A scarred, reclusive earl who frightened away companions. A dowager countess who was particular and demanding. A remote hall in Derbyshire where she would be neither family nor servant, forever balanced between two worlds.

It sounded perfectly dreadful. It also sounded like escape.

“I shall write to accept immediately,” she said.

Her father studied her face. “Are you certain? Mr. Harding, for all his faults, offers security. This position… Amelia, we know nothing of these people beyond gossip and hearsay.”

“I know they’ll pay me for my work rather than expect me to be grateful for the privilege of serving them without compensation,” Amelia said dryly. “That already puts them ahead of Mr. Harding, who expects me to manage his household, bear his children, and endure his conversation for the rest of my natural life, all for the magnificent sum of room and board.”

“When you say it that way, it does rather clarify matters.” Her father squeezed her hand. “Write your letter, my dear. Though I shall miss you terribly.”

Amelia rose and kissed his forehead, noting new lines around his eyes and the slight tremor in his left hand that appeared when he was tired. How many more years did he have? And what would become of him without her to manage the household, to make sure he ate properly and that he remembered to wear his muffler in cold weather?

One crisis at a time, she told herself firmly. Save what you can from your salary, establish yourself in the Countess’s good graces, and perhaps… perhaps something will go well.

 

Chapter Two

 

“Another companion? The fourth this year, if my count serves.”

Amelia’s fingers tightened on the worn leather strap as the coachman’s words drifted through the thin walls of the hired conveyance. She had stopped at the village inn to change horses, and the ostler clearly knew the coachman well enough for gossip.

“Aye, and this one looks even greener than the last. Pretty enough thing, but she’s got that look about her; all book learning and no sense. His Lordship will have her hastening back to whence she came within a fortnight, remember my words.”

Amelia straightened her spine against the uncomfortable seat, refusing to let their casual cruelty wound her. She had survived Mr. Harding’s threats and her village’s whispers. She could certainly survive the gossip of strangers who knew nothing of her circumstances or character.

The letter of acceptance she’d written by candlelight three weeks ago had been a masterpiece of careful phrases and modest claims. She had detailed her experience nursing her mother through her final illness, though she hadn’t mentioned the long nights of watching her mother struggle for breath, or the way Amelia had learned to move silently through a sickroom, anticipating needs before they were voiced. She had mentioned her education, Latin, French, a little Italian, watercolors, music, but not that she’d taught herself Greek from her father’s old primers, or that she played chess well enough to beat the local magistrate whenever he visited.

The reply had come with shocking swiftness. Lord Wynthorpe’s assistant had written that Her Ladyship would be pleased to receive Miss Everly at her earliest convenience. Some money for traveling expenses was enclosed, which was more than generous and enough that Amelia had been able to purchase a new pelisse and have her best dress renewed without touching her mother’s pearl earrings, which she’d been prepared to sell.

“Perhaps no one else wished to go,” she had told her father when the acceptance arrived.

“Or perhaps,” he had replied quietly, “they hope you will not stay.”

Now, as the coach lurched over another rut in the increasingly desolate road, Amelia wondered if her father had been closer to the truth than either of them had wanted to admit.

The landscape had changed dramatically since leaving the familiar rolling hills of her home county. Here, the moors stretched endlessly, painted in shades of brown and grey that would have been depressing if not for their wild beauty. Heather bloomed in defiant purple patches, and the sky seemed impossibly vast, heavy with clouds that promised rain before nightfall.

Through the coach window, she caught glimpses of isolated cottages, their inhabitants pausing in their labor to watch the vehicle pass. More than once, she saw people make what looked suspiciously like signs against anything bad, when they realized her destination.

Wonderful, she thought with grim humor. I’m heading to a place so terrible that the locals ward against it. Perhaps I should have accepted Mr. Harding after all.

But no—even this growing unease was preferable to the certainty of slow suffocation that marriage to him would have brought. At least here, whatever awaited her, she would face it on her own terms, earning her own living rather than existing on sufferance.

The coach slowed, and Amelia heard the coachman call out to someone. She peered through the grimy window to see a shepherd, his flock scattered across the moorland like dirty clouds against the earth.

“How far to Hawthorne Hall?” the coachman shouted.

The shepherd’s weathered face turned toward them, and Amelia saw his expression shift from curiosity to something like pity. “Three miles, if you follow the road. Though if you have any sense, you will turn back now.”

“The lady’s expected,” the coachman replied, his tone suggesting he shared the shepherd’s opinion but was bound by duty to deliver his passenger.

“Then Heaven help her,” the shepherd muttered, loud enough for Amelia to hear. “That place has no love for gentle folks. Especially not young ladies who think they can tame what’s wild.”

Amelia wanted to call out that she had no intention of taming anything or anyone, that she merely sought honest employment, but the coach was already moving again, leaving the shepherd and his dire warnings behind.

The final three miles seemed to stretch endlessly. The road deteriorated from poor to barely passable, and Amelia found herself gripping the seat to avoid being thrown about like dice in a cup. Her carefully pinned hair was coming loose, and she knew she must look a fright. Hardly the composed, capable companion the Dowager Countess was expecting.

Then, as they crested a hill, she saw it.

Hawthorne Hall rose from the moorland like something from a Gothic novel—all dark stone and sharp angles, its numerous chimneys reaching toward the grey sky like fingers. It must have been magnificent once, perhaps a century ago when some ambitious ancestor had built it to proclaim his wealth and taste. Now, ivy strangled the walls, and many of the windows were shuttered, giving the impression of a house with its eyes closed against the world.

“Heaven help us,” the coachman muttered, and Amelia couldn’t blame him. The place looked less like a home than a prison, or perhaps a tomb for ambitions that had died with whoever had first dreamed this monument to themselves.

Yet as they drew closer, she noticed small signs of life. Smoke rose from several chimneys, suggesting warmth within despite the forbidding exterior. The gravel drive, while weedy at the edges, had been recently raked. And in one of the upper windows she caught a glimpse of lace curtains and what might have been a face quickly withdrawn.

The coach pulled up before massive oak doors that looked capable of withstanding a siege. Amelia gathered her courage along with her small satchel, checking that her appearance was as neat as possible given the journey. Her new pelisse, a soft dove grey that complemented her eyes, gave her confidence, as did the knowledge that her dress beneath, while simple, was clean and well-fitted.

The coach door opened, and a footman appeared—young, nervous-looking, with the kind of face that suggested he’d rather be anywhere else. He helped her down, his eyes carefully avoiding hers.

“Miss Everly?” he asked, though who else she could be, arriving alone at this hour, was unclear.

“Yes. I’m expected by Her Ladyship.”

“Aye, miss. If you’ll follow me. Thomas here will see to your trunk.”

Another footman appeared, slightly older, with a cheeky grin that seemed out of place in such somber surroundings. He winked at her as he hefted her modest trunk, and Amelia felt slightly better. At least not everyone here looked ready for a funeral.

 

***

 

The entrance hall took her breath away, and not entirely in a good way. It was vast, dominated by a staircase that swept upward in a curve that must once have been elegant but now seemed merely exhausting. Portraits lined the walls—ancestors, she presumed, all seeming to glower down at her with varying degrees of disapproval. The floor was cracked in places, and the chandelier overhead was missing half its crystals, giving it a gap-toothed appearance.

Yet here too were signs of care. Fresh flowers, late roses and autumn asters, stood in a Chinese vase on a side table. The brass fixtures, while old, were polished to a high shine. And the air, rather than musty, smelled of beeswax and lavender.

“This way, miss,” the first footman said, leading her not up the staircase but through a door to the right. “Mrs. Hammond will want to see you first.”

Mrs. Hammond, Amelia discovered, was the housekeeper; a woman built like a fortification, solid and imposing, with iron-grey hair pulled back so severely it seemed to stretch her features. Yet her eyes, when they met Amelia’s, were not unkind.

“Miss Everly,” she said, her voice carrying the hint of a Yorkshire accent. “Welcome to Hawthorne Hall. I trust your journey was not too uncomfortable?”

“It was perfectly manageable, thank you,” Amelia replied, matching the woman’s formal tone while offering a small smile. “The traveling money provided was more than generous.”

Something flickered in Mrs. Hammond’s eyes; surprise, perhaps, that Amelia would mention such a practical matter so directly. “Her Ladyship is most particular about such things. She does not believe in asking people to impoverish themselves in order to take up employment.”

“Then Her Ladyship and I should get along very well, as I have a decided aversion to impoverishment.”

Was that the ghost of a smile on the housekeeper’s stern face? If so, it vanished quickly. “I should inform you, Miss Everly, that this position has been… challenging for your predecessors. Her Ladyship is not difficult, precisely, but she has particular ways. And the house itself…” She paused, seeming to choose her words carefully. “The house has its own peculiarities.”

“All old houses do,” Amelia said mildly. “I grew up in a vicarage that dated back many years. We had a staircase that creaked out hymns and a kitchen door that refused to stay closed during thunderstorms. One learns to accommodate.”

This time, the smile was definite, though still small. “Indeed. Well, perhaps you’ll do better than…” She stopped herself. “Tea will be served in your chamber at four. Her Ladyship will receive you at five. That should give you time to refresh yourself after your journey. Elsie will show you up.”

As if summoned by her name, a maid appeared—young, perhaps seventeen, with bright curious eyes and the kind of nervous energy that suggested she found life at Hawthorne Hall either terrifying or thrilling or possibly both.

“Miss Everly! Oh, we’ve been ever so curious, I mean pleased, to know you were coming. Follow me, miss, and mind the third step, it’s loose, and the seventh makes a terrible noise if you step on the left side, and whatever you do, don’t touch the banister between the first and second floor because…”

“Elsie!” Mrs. Hammond’s voice cut through the girl’s chatter like scissors through silk. “Perhaps Miss Everly would prefer to reach her room before hearing the entire history of the house’s architectural failings.”

Elsie bobbed a curtsey, blushing furiously. “Yes, Mrs. Hammond. Sorry, Mrs. Hammond. This way, miss.”

As Amelia followed the girl up the staircase, carefully avoiding the third step and the left side of the seventh, she couldn’t help but notice how Elsie kept glancing back at her with barely concealed fascination.

“Is something wrong?” Amelia finally asked as they reached the first landing.

“Oh no, miss! It’s just…you’re not what we expected.”

“And what did you expect?”

Elsie bit her lip, clearly debating whether honesty or discretion was the better path. Honesty won. “Well, the first companion was ever so lofty and looked down her nose at all of us and complained about everything from the food to the firmness of her mattress. She lasted three days before His Lordship…” She stopped abruptly, going pale.

“Before His Lordship?” Amelia prompted gently.

“Before they decided the position didn’t suit,” Elsie finished weakly, though Amelia could tell that wasn’t what she’d been about to say.

They continued up another flight of stairs, these even narrower. The carpet runner was worn but clean, and Amelia noticed that while the wallpaper was faded, someone had taken care to repair small tears and water stains.

“The second companion was a coward,” Elsie continued, apparently unable to help herself. “Jumped at every sound, cried whenever anyone spoke above a whisper. She didn’t last a week. The third was…” She paused, searching for words. “She was nice enough, but she had ideas. Wanted to reorganize everything, make improvements. Her Ladyship didn’t take kindly to that.”

“And so she left as well?”

“Ran off in the middle of the night, she did. Didn’t even wait for her wages.”

Amelia absorbed this information as they walked down a long corridor. Portraits continued here, though these seemed more recent—including one of a young man in military uniform, his face turned slightly away from the viewer as though he’d been reluctant to sit for it.

“Is that His Lordship?” she asked, pausing before it.

Elsie glanced at the portrait nervously. “Aye, miss. Painted before he went to war. Before…” Again, that abrupt stop.

Amelia studied the painting. The young man, he couldn’t have been more than twenty when it was done, had dark hair and what would have been handsome features. The artist had captured something of defiance in his posture, as though he’d rather be anywhere but sitting for a portrait.

“He was handsome,” she said simply.

“Was,” Elsie repeated sadly, then seemed to realize what she’d said. “That is…I mean—here’s your room, miss!”

She threw open a door with obvious relief, and Amelia stepped into what would be her new quarters.

It was better than she’d expected. Much better. The room was spacious, with windows overlooking what must once have been formal gardens but were now a tangle of overgrowth with hints of former glory. The furniture was old but well-maintained; a four-poster bed with faded blue hangings, a writing desk positioned to catch the best light, a comfortable-looking chair by the fireplace where a fire had already been laid.

“It’s lovely,” Amelia said sincerely, and Elsie beamed.

“Her Ladyship insisted you have one of the better rooms. She said she wouldn’t have her companion housed like a servant.” Elsie’s pride in her mistress was evident. “There’s a dressing room through there, and you’ll share the necessary with Mrs. Coleridge, Her Ladyship’s lady’s maid, but she’s ever so nice and won’t mind a bit.”

Amelia moved to the window, looking out at the wild garden below. She could see the remains of what must have been beautiful topiary, now grown shaggy and strange. A sundial stood at an odd angle in what had been a herb garden. And was that…yes, a maze, though so overgrown it looked more like a solid mass of hedge.

“Does no one tend the gardens?” she asked.

“Old Morton does his best, but he’s seventy, and his nephew who helps him isn’t quite…” Elsie tapped her temple significantly. “Right, if you take my meaning. His Lordship won’t hire proper gardeners. Won’t hire anyone new at all, really. We’re all who’s left from before.”

“Before the war?”

“Before he came back from it,” Elsie corrected softly. “He weren’t the same, miss. Not in body and not in spirit. He used to be full of life, always laughing, friends coming and going. Now…” She shuddered. “Now he keeps to his wing of the house, and we keep to ours, and that’s how it is.”

Amelia was about to ask more when a bell rang somewhere in the depths of the house, and Elsie jumped.

“That’ll be Mrs. Hammond wanting me. Your trunk should be up shortly, miss. Tea at four, remember. And miss?” She paused at the door. “You seem nice. Nicer than the others. Try to stay, won’t you? Her Ladyship needs someone, even if she won’t admit it. And maybe…” She glanced toward the corridor as though checking for eavesdroppers. “Maybe you won’t mind the darkness so much.”

Before Amelia could ask what she meant by darkness, Elsie was gone, leaving Amelia alone in her new room with a growing list of questions and warnings.

She removed her pelisse and bonnet, hanging them carefully in the large wardrobe that smelled of cedar and age. Her trunk arrived shortly after, carried by Thomas, who gave her another of those irreverent winks before departing. Amelia unpacked methodically, trying to make the room feel like hers. Her few books on the shelf by the bed, her mother’s silver-backed brush on the dressing table and her writing materials arranged just so on the desk.

By the time she’d finished, changed into her best afternoon dress, a soft blue that her father said brought out her eyes, and tidied her hair, it was nearly four. As if by magic, a knock came at the door, and a different maid, older, more sedate, entered with a tea tray.

“I’m Bridgers, miss,” she said, setting the tray on the small table by the window. “I’ll be seeing to your needs along with my other duties. Anything particular you require?”

“Just information,” Amelia said, pouring herself tea and finding it excellent—much better than what they’d been able to afford at home. “What should I know about Her Ladyship’s preferences? I want to be useful to her, not another disappointment.”

Bridgers studied her for a moment, as though assessing her sincerity. “Her Ladyship rises at nine, takes breakfast in her room. She likes her morning letters read to her—her eyes aren’t what they were. She rests after luncheon, receives visitors at three, though there ain’t many of those anymore, and dines at six. She retires early, usually by nine.”

“And His Lordship?”

Bridgers’ face closed. “His Lordship keeps his own hours. You needn’t worry about him, miss.”

“But surely I’ll encounter him at some point?”

“If you do,” Bridgers said carefully, “best to curtsey and move on. He doesn’t care for… interactions.”

Amelia wanted to press further, but the clock on the mantel chimed the quarter hour. She had little time before meeting the Dowager Countess.

“Thank you, Bridgers. You’ve been most helpful.”

The maid nodded and departed, leaving Amelia to fortify herself with tea and contemplate what exactly she’d gotten herself into. A house full of damaged souls and whispered warnings, a mistress who drove away companions, and a master who’d earned the title “Beast” through what combination of appearance and temperament she’d yet to discover.

Well, she thought, squaring her shoulders as she’d done before facing Mr. Harding’s proposal, I wanted something different from life in the vicarage. It appears I’ve found it.

At five o’clock precisely, she presented herself at the door to the Dowager Countess’s chambers, knocked and entered.

The room was like stepping back in time to a more elegant age. Unlike the faded grandeur of the rest of the house, this space was perfectly maintained. Rich burgundy wallpaper, carpets in jewel tones, furniture that gleamed with care. And by the fire, in a throne-like chair, sat the Dowager Countess of Wynthorpe.

Amelia’s first thought was that she must have been stunning in her youth. Even now, at what must be seventy years, she retained an elegance that had nothing to do with beauty and everything to do with presence. Her silver hair was arranged in an elaborate style that had been fashionable thirty years ago. Her dress was black silk, as befitted a widow, but relieved by the magnificent pearls at her throat. Her hands, resting on the arms of her chair, were thin but trembling slightly, adorned with rings that caught the firelight.

But it was her eyes that captured Amelia—sharp, intelligent, and cold as winter frost.

“So,” the Countess said, her voice sharp despite a slight wheeze, “you’re the replacement. Late. I expected you an hour ago.”

Amelia blinked, confused. “Your Ladyship, I was told five o’clock.”

“Don’t contradict me, girl. I know what time I said. Stand there—no, not there, you’re blocking the light. There. Now turn around.”

Amelia turned slowly, feeling rather like a horse at auction.

“Hmph. You’re younger than I requested. And prettier. Pretty girls are always trouble. They get ideas.” The Countess’s eyes narrowed. “Do you have ideas, Miss…”

“Everly, Your Ladyship. And no, I have no ideas beyond fulfilling my duties.”

“We’ll see about that. Your penmanship…is it legible? The last girl wrote like a spider dipped in ink.”

“I believe my hand is clear, Your Ladyship.”

“Believe? Either it is or it isn’t. Do not be so insipid. I cannot abide feeble-minded females. Sit down—no, not that chair, that’s mine when I want to see the window. The uncomfortable one. Yes, that one. Discomfort builds character.”

Amelia settled into what was indeed a remarkably uncomfortable chair.

“Your references claim you nursed your mother. Was she an invalid long?”

“Two years, Your Ladyship.”

“Lingering illness is so tedious. I suppose she complained constantly?”

Amelia kept her voice level despite the insult to her mother’s memory. “She bore her suffering with grace.”

“How dull. I intend to complain vigorously about every ache and pain. If one must suffer, one might as well make everyone else suffer too.” The Countess rang a bell with unnecessary force. “This tea is cold. It’s always cold. The servants are trying to kill me with cold tea and drafts.”

Bridgers appeared instantly, as though she’d been hovering outside.

“Your Ladyship?”

“This tea is stone cold. And why is Miss Whatever-her-name-is sitting in the good chair? Put her in the other one.”

“I’m already in the uncomfortable chair, Your Ladyship,” Amelia said mildly.

The Countess’s eyes snapped to her. “Did I ask you to speak? No. You speak when spoken to, and only then if you have something intelligent to say. Which, given your background, seems unlikely. A vicar’s daughter.” She said it like one might say ‘a scullery maid.’ “I suppose you think yourself quite accomplished with your little bit of French and your watercolors?”

“I make no particular claims to accomplishment, Your Ladyship.”

“Good. Because I’ve had enough of accomplished misses who think they’re too good to fetch and carry. You’re here to work, girl, not to display your talents. Can you read without stumbling over long words?”

“Yes, Your Ladyship.”

“We’ll see. Can you write without making blots?”

“Yes, Your Ladyship.”

“Hmph. Can you sit quietly without chattering like a magpie?”

Amelia remained silent.

“Well? I asked you a question!”

“I thought silence might be the best demonstration, Your Ladyship.”

The Countess’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Clever. I despise cleverness in servants.”

“Then it’s fortunate I’m not clever, merely practical.”

“Practical.” The Countess practically spat the word. “The last practical girl tried to rearrange my entire household. Had opinions about my medicine, my diet, my schedule. Are you going to have opinions, Miss Everly?”

“Not unless asked for them, Your Ladyship.”

“Good. Because your opinion is worth exactly what I’m paying for it—fifty pounds per annum, which is generous considering you have no experience and no references worth speaking of.”

Amelia bit her tongue. She had references, good ones, but clearly the Countess hadn’t bothered to read them.

The Countess rang the bell again, though Bridgers hadn’t left. “My shawl is wrong. This is the Tuesday shawl. It’s Thursday. Are you trying to confuse me?”

“Begging your pardon, Your Ladyship, but it is Tuesday,” Bridgers said patiently.

“Don’t contradict me! I know what day it is. Miss Everly, what day is it?”

Amelia hesitated, caught between honesty and not contradicting her employer on the first day. “I believe it’s Tuesday, Your Ladyship.”

“You believe? You don’t know? What use is a companion who doesn’t even know what day it is?” The Countess’s hands trembled more visibly now, whether from age or agitation unclear. “I’m surrounded by incompetents. My son hides in his chambers like a wounded animal, the servants can’t even bring hot tea, and now they send me a companion who can’t tell Tuesday from Thursday.”

“Your Ladyship,” Amelia said carefully, “perhaps you would like me to read to you? It might be soothing.”

“Soothing? I’m not an infant who needs soothing. Though you’d probably read with all the expression of a block of wood. They always do. Very well, read. That book there—no, not that one, that’s the one the last girl slobbered over. The red one. And don’t dramatize. I cannot bear dramatization.”

Amelia fetched the book, a volume of sermons, naturally, and began to read in a clear, steady voice.

“Too fast,” the Countess interrupted after barely a sentence. She started again, slower. “Too slow. Are you trying to send me to sleep?” Another attempt. “Too loud. My hearing isn’t completely gone.” And again. “Now you’re mumbling.”

Amelia paused, took a breath, and continued reading at exactly the same pace and volume as her last attempt. This time, the Countess let her continue for nearly a page before interrupting.

“Your accent is atrocious. Where were you educated? The village school?”

“At home, Your Ladyship, with a governess until I was twelve, then with my father.”

“It shows. Provincial. Still, I suppose you’ll have to do.” The Countess shifted in her chair, wincing. “My back is in pain. It’s this chair. And the drafts. This house is full of drafts. And my son does nothing about it. Just lurks in his cave like some sort of…”

She broke off as footsteps sounded in the hall outside; heavy and uneven.

“Sebastian?” she called, her voice suddenly different, almost eager. “Sebastian, is that you?”

The footsteps paused, then continued past.

The Countess’s face fell, then hardened again. “He won’t come. He never does. Too busy wallowing in self-pity. He probably doesn’t even remember he has a mother.”

Amelia heard real pain beneath the harsh words and felt an unexpected sympathy for this difficult woman.

“Shall I continue reading, Your Ladyship?”

“What? Oh. No. I’m tired. My medicine…where’s my medicine? They hide it from me, you know. They think I take too much. As if I don’t know my own body after seventy years.” She rang the bell again. “Bridgers! My tonic!”

Bridgers appeared with a bottle and spoon. “The physician says just one spoonful, Your Ladyship.”

“The physician is a fool. Two spoonfuls. I’m in agony.”

“One spoonful, Your Ladyship,” Bridgers said firmly, and Amelia realized the maid had been dealing with this routine for years.

After taking her medicine with bad grace, the Countess fixed Amelia with a baleful eye. “You’ll dine with me at six. Don’t be late. I cannot abide lateness. Wear something decent if you have it, which I doubt. We may be reduced, but we still maintain standards. And don’t expect conversation. I don’t converse with companions. You’re here to listen and fetch, not to share your tedious thoughts.”

“Yes, Your Ladyship.”

“Now go. Your presence is giving me a headache. Report to me after breakfast tomorrow. Eight sharp.”

“I thought breakfast was at nine, Your Ladyship?”

“Are you arguing with me? Eight sharp. Now go!”

A clock chimed the half-hour somewhere in the house.

“Go and change for dinner,” the Countess commanded. “We may be reduced in circumstances, but we still dress for dinner at Hawthorne Hall. And Miss Everly?”

Amelia paused at the door. “Your Ladyship?”

“Welcome to our gothic melodrama. Try not to let it overwhelm you.”

As Amelia made her way back to her room, she heard footsteps on the floor above. Heavy, uneven, as though the walker favored one leg. They paused directly overhead, and she found herself holding her breath. Then they continued, fading into the distance.

So the Beast walks, she thought. And I’m to pretend I don’t hear him.

But Amelia had never been good at pretending not to notice things. It was, her father often said, both her best and worst quality. And something told her that Hawthorne Hall, with all its shadows and secrets, would test that quality to its limits.

She had just reached her door when she heard it; a roar of frustration from somewhere above, followed by the crash of something breaking. She froze, her hand on the doorknob.

“Pay it no mind, miss,” came Thomas’s voice from behind her. She hadn’t heard him approach. “His Lordship’s in one of his moods. Best to stay clear when he’s like that.”

“Does it happen often?”

Thomas shrugged. “Often enough. You’ll learn to read the signs. When the storms come, weather or temper, we all find somewhere else to be.”

Amelia nodded and entered her room, but she couldn’t shake the sound of that roar from her mind. It hadn’t sounded like anger, exactly. It had sounded like pain.

As she changed for dinner, choosing her second-best dress, she found herself wondering about the man above. What had the war done to him? What had his betrothed’s desertion added to that damage? And why did he choose to hide here, in this moldering hall, rather than seek help or comfort?

Not your concern, she told herself firmly. You’re here to serve the Countess, not to solve the mystery of her son.

But as she made her way to dinner, navigating the treacherous stairs and drafty corridors, she couldn’t help but feel that she’d entered a story that had been waiting for a new character. Whether she’d be the heroine or merely another footnote in the tragedy of Hawthorne Hall remained to be seen.

Dinner was a strange affair. The dining room, clearly meant to host dozens, held only two at a table that could have seated twenty. The Countess sat at the head, Amelia at her right. Courses appeared and disappeared, served by Bridgers and Thomas with practiced efficiency, though Amelia noticed both servants kept glancing at the door as though expecting someone.

“He won’t come,” the Countess said, catching Amelia’s own glance toward the door. “He hasn’t dined with me in two years.”

“That must be lonely for you.”

“I’ve grown accustomed to it. One grows accustomed to many things, given time.” She paused, her soup spoon halfway to her lips. “Do you know what the cruelest thing about age is, Miss Everly?”

“What, Your Ladyship?”

“It’s not the failing body or the fading beauty. It’s watching your children suffer and being powerless to help them. Sebastian was so vital before the war—full of plans and dreams. Now he’s a ghost haunting his own life, and I can do nothing but watch.”

Amelia thought of her own father, the worry in his eyes when he’d seen her off. “Perhaps your presence is help enough. Sometimes just enduring alongside someone is all we can offer.”

The Countess studied her. “You speak as though you know something of endurance.”

“I watched my mother die by degrees, Your Ladyship. I know something of helpless watching.”

They finished dinner in companionable silence, and Amelia felt she’d passed some sort of test. When the meal ended, the Countess rose with obvious effort.

“I retire early these days,” she said. “You may do as you wish with your evenings. The library is at your disposal, though many of the books are in poor condition. We haven’t had the funds for proper maintenance in years.”

“The estate is struggling?” Amelia asked carefully.

“My husband was not the most prudent of men, and Sebastian has been… distracted since his return. But we manage. We always manage.”

As Amelia helped the older woman to the door, they heard footsteps in the hall beyond. The Countess tensed.

“Mother?” The voice was deep, roughened as though from disuse. “Are you well?”

 

Chapter Three 

 

Amelia felt the Dowager Countess stiffen beneath her supporting hand, the older woman’s fingers gripping Amelia’s arm with surprising strength. The voice had come from the shadows beyond the doorway—a place where the candlelight from the corridor failed to reach, creating a pocket of darkness that seemed deliberately maintained.

“Perfectly adequate, I suppose,” the Countess replied, her tone sharp. “Though one can hardly expect more these days.”

Silence stretched uncomfortably. Amelia could make out only the vaguest suggestion of a figure in the darkness; tall, broad-shouldered, utterly still. She had the unsettling feeling of being observed by someone who had no intention of being observed in return.

“You have someone with you.” It wasn’t a question. The voice was flat, carefully neutral.

“My new companion. The fourth this year, as you’ve no doubt been counting.”

Another pause. “I see.”

“Do you? How remarkable, considering you barely show your face anymore.” The Countess’s voice could have etched glass.

“Good evening, Mother.”

“Sebastian…” The Countess started forward, but the shadows were already empty. Heavy, uneven footsteps retreated down the corridor and a pronounced limp, Amelia noted, favoring the left side.

The Countess stood frozen for a moment, staring into the empty darkness. When she turned back to Amelia, her face was a mask of cold composure.

“Well? Don’t stand there gaping. I haven’t all evening to waste in drafty corridors.”

Amelia guided the older woman through the maze of hallways, the Countess maintaining a stream of criticism about everything from the temperature to Amelia’s pace.

“Too fast…do you think I’m a racehorse? Now too slow…we’ll be here forever at this rate…”

They reached the Countess’s chambers at last, where Bridgers materialized to assist.

“Shall I prepare your evening medicine, Your Ladyship?” Bridgers asked.

“Of course you should prepare it. Must I tell you everything? Honestly, the incompetence…” The Countess waved Amelia away. “You’re dismissed. Report at eight o’clock sharp tomorrow. Do try not to oversleep like the last girl.”

Amelia curtsied and escaped, but not before catching a glimpse of the Countess in the mirror. An old woman gripping the arms of her chair as though they were the only things keeping her upright.

What happened in this house? Amelia wondered as she made her way back to her own room. What turned a son against his mother and trapped them both in this terrible dance of need and rejection?

She had just reached the landing when Elsie appeared, carrying a warming pan.

“Oh, miss! I was just coming to see to your fire. It gets cold in these rooms at night, especially when the wind picks up.” The girl bustled into Amelia’s room, chattering as she worked. “Did you meet him then? His Lordship?”

“Not exactly,” Amelia replied, watching as Elsie expertly stirred the dying fire back to life. “He kept to the shadows.”

“Always does, when he can. He hates the light and he hates being looked at. I can’t say I blame him, poor soul, though he weren’t always like this.” Elsie warmed the bed with practiced efficiency. “He used to be the most handsome gentleman you ever saw. And he surely had half the county in love with him before he went to war.”

“And now?”

Elsie’s face fell. “Now he’s like a ghost haunting his own life. He won’t see anyone, won’t go anywhere. Just prowls the house at all hours, specially the library. That’s his domain. We’re not even allowed to clean it properly; just a quick dust when he’s elsewhere, which isn’t often.”

“The library?” Amelia’s interest perked. She’d always found solace in books.

“Oh yes, miss. His Lordship practically lives there.” Elsie lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Between you and me, miss, I think he blames himself for the state of things. His father left debts, you see, and then the war, and his injuries, and that dreadful business with Lady Rosalind…”

“Lady Rosalind?”

Elsie’s hand flew to her mouth. “I shouldn’t have said…Mrs. Hammond will be very angry if she knew I was gossiping.”

“I won’t say a word,” Amelia promised. “But if I’m to serve this household, shouldn’t I know what sensitivities to avoid?”

The maid glanced at the door, then whispered, “She was his betrothed. Lady Rosalind Fairfax. The prettiest woman you ever saw, all golden hair and blue eyes. They’d been betrothed since before he went to war and she had promised to wait for him.”

“But she didn’t?”

“Oh, she waited. Right up until she saw his face after the war. She took one look at the scars and fainted dead away. Next anyone knew, she’d broken the betrothal and married a viscount from London She is Lady Ashmore now. Didn’t even have the decency to tell him herself; she sent her father to do it.” Elsie’s young face was indignant. “Can you imagine? Throwing over a hero who got wounded serving his country, just because he weren’t handsome anymore?”

Amelia could imagine it all too well. Society valued beauty, especially in women, but men too faced judgment for their appearances. A scarred face might be called distinguished on an older man, but on a young one seeking a bride? And for someone who’d already won his bride, only to lose her to vanity?

“That’s terrible,” she said quietly.

“That’s what broke him, miss. Not the war, not the scars but her leaving. He loved her fiercely, and she couldn’t see past his face to the man underneath.” Elsie finished her work and gathered the warming pan. “That’s why he hides now. Figures if the woman who claimed to love him couldn’t bear the sight of him, why would anyone else?”

After Elsie left, Amelia sat by her fire, thinking. She’d known rejection—Mr. Harding’s cruel words still stung when she let herself remember them. And in that situation it had been her who had doled out rejection too. But to be rejected by someone you loved, someone who’d promised to stand by you, because of wounds earned in service to your country? That was a different kind of cruelty entirely.

She thought of that figure in the shadows, the weariness in his voice when he’d spoken to his mother. Not a beast at all, but a wounded man who’d learned that even love wasn’t stronger than revulsion.

Well, she thought as she prepared for bed, I’ve been called nobody and worse. Perhaps a nobody is exactly what a man hiding from the world needs—someone with no expectations and nothing to lose.

The next morning came too quickly. Amelia dressed in her plainest gown, brown wool, high-necked, utterly respectable, and presented herself at the Countess’s door at precisely eight o’clock.

“Enter.”

The Countess was already dressed and seated by the window, her breakfast tray untouched.

“You’re three minutes late.”

Amelia glanced at the mantel clock, which showed exactly eight o’clock. “Your Ladyship…”

“Don’t contradict me. I know what time it is. Sit. Not there…that’s the good chair. The other one.”

Amelia sat in what was clearly the least comfortable chair in the room, its seat worn to an uncomfortable slope.

“You met my son last evening.” It wasn’t a question.

“I heard his voice, Your Ladyship. We were not introduced.”

“No, he doesn’t do introductions anymore. Doesn’t do anything anymore except skulk about like a common thief in his own home.” The Countess picked up a piece of toast, examined it with disgust, and set it down. “I suppose the servants have been filling your head with gossip.”

“I make it a practice not to listen to gossip, Your Ladyship.”

“Don’t lie, girl. Everyone listens to gossip. It’s the only entertainment in this desolate place.” She rang the bell violently. “This tea is cold. It’s always cold. They’re trying to poison me with cold tea.”

Bridgers appeared, replaced the supposedly cold tea with an identical pot, and departed; all without the Countess acknowledging her existence.

“Where was I? Oh yes, my son. You’ll encounter him eventually. When you do, don’t stare, don’t simper, and don’t run screaming. The last girl fainted which was utterly ridiculous. It’s only a scar, for heaven’s sake.”

“Yes, Your Ladyship.”

“Read to me. That book there…no, not that one, that’s the one that fool of a vicar left. The red one.”

Amelia fetched the book, a collection of moral essays, and began to read. She made it through perhaps three sentences before the Countess interrupted.

“Your accent is atrocious. Where were you educated?”

“At home, Your Ladyship.”

“It shows. Continue.”

Three more sentences.

“Too fast. Are you trying to race through it?”

Amelia adjusted her pace. Two sentences.

“Now you’re droning. This is meant to be improving literature, not a sleeping story.”

And so it went for the next hour, with the Countess finding fault with everything from Amelia’s posture to her breathing. Finally, mercifully, the clock struck nine.

“Enough. You’re giving me a headache. Fetch my correspondence from the desk.”

Amelia retrieved a stack of letters, most unopened.

“These have been accumulating,” the Countess said with distaste. “My eyes are not what they were. You’ll need to read them to me and take down my responses. Can you write a proper letter, or will I be humiliated by your penmanship?”

“I believe my hand is legible, Your Ladyship.”

“We shall see. Begin with the one with the black seal.”

 

***

 

The morning room proved to be a pleasant surprise. Unlike the faded grandeur of the formal rooms, this space felt lived-in and comfortable. The furniture was worn but well-placed to catch the morning sun, and someone had arranged fresh flowers in a crystal vase.

Amelia was examining a shelf of books when she heard that distinctive uneven tread in the corridor. She froze, uncertain of protocol. The footsteps paused outside the door, then continued past. She released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

Twenty minutes later, Bridgers appeared. “Her Ladyship will see you now.”

Amelia followed her to the Countess’s sitting room, where the older woman was ensconced in her chair like a queen on her throne, though a queen whose realm had seen better days.

“You’re late,” the Countess announced.

“Your Ladyship, I was told to wait…”

“Excuses already? How tedious.” The Countess waved a dismissive hand. “Fetch that book. The blue one.”

Amelia retrieved what she hoped was the correct volume.

“Fordyce’s Sermons are improving literature for young women who need improvement. Which, given your background, I assume you do. Read. And do try not to mangle the pronunciation.”

Amelia read for nearly an hour, with the Countess interrupting every few minutes to criticize something; her pace, her tone, her posture. Finally, the older woman raised a hand.

“Enough. You read like a schoolroom miss. We shall have to work on that.” She shifted in her chair, wincing. “I require my morning walk. The physician insists, though what he knows about anything is questionable. You’ll accompany me.”

They made their slow progress through the house to the gardens, or what had once been gardens. The formal flower garden was now a tangle of overgrowth and the gravel paths were choked with weeds. A few late roses bloomed despite the neglect, their beauty all the more poignant for its wild setting.

“Disgraceful, isn’t it?” the Countess said, though her tone held more weariness than anger. “There were six gardeners when I came here as a bride. Now we have old Morton, who can barely see, and his nephew, who barely has wits to see with.”

“The roses are still lovely,” Amelia offered.

“The roses are running wild. Rather like everything else here.” The Countess paused, gripping her walking stick. “That bench. I need to rest.”

They sat on a stone bench that had seen better decades, moss creeping up its legs. The Countess was breathing harder than such a short walk warranted.

“Your Ladyship, perhaps we should return…”

“When I want your medical opinion, I’ll ask for it.” But she was already struggling to rise.

As they made their way back, they encountered a man in the entrance hall. A middle-aged, prosperous-looking, with the kind of face that suggested he knew the price of everything and the value of nothing.

“Lady Wynthorpe.” He bowed perfunctorily. “I’ve come to see His Lordship about the eastern farms.”

“Mr. Harton.” The Countess’s tone could have frozen water. “My son sees no one without an appointment.”

“The matter is urgent, Your Ladyship. The Marsh family is three months behind.”

“Then it can wait for an appointment.” The Countess moved past him with imperial disdain. “Good day, Mr. Harton.”

Amelia followed, but not before catching Harton’s muttered comment: “The whole family’s run insane. They won’t last another year at this rate.”

Back in her sitting room, the Countess sank into her chair with barely concealed relief.

“Vultures,” she muttered. “All of them, circling, waiting for us to fall.” She closed her eyes. “Leave me. I’m tired. Return after luncheon.”

Amelia curtsied and left, but as she passed the library, she heard voices and realised that Harton had found his quarry despite the Countess’s dismissal. She stayed there out of curiosity and what she heard surprised her and left her wondering.