Chapter 4
Chapter Four
“This is the family wing,” Mrs. Dawson said, gesturing to a long corridor lined with doors. “You are not to enter unless explicitly instructed to do so. His Grace values his privacy, and he will not tolerate intrusions. His quarters are at the far end and completely off limits at all times.”
“Yes, Mrs. Dawson,” Eliza nodded, her arms already aching from carrying the stack of linens Mrs. Dawson had handed her ten minutes ago.
“The boys’ rooms are in the middle and next to Miss Winslow’s quarters in that wing. You may be called upon to assist with their care from time to time, though that is primarily Miss Winslow’s responsibility.”
“I understand.”
“You’re not what I expected, I’ll admit.” Mrs. Dawson’s sharp eyes swept over her. “His Grace doesn’t usually hire staff without proper references.”
“I’m very grateful for the opportunity, Mrs. Dawson. I promise I’ll work hard to prove myself,” Eliza said as her pulse quickened.
“See that you do,” Mrs. Dawson said, her tone softening just slightly. “Now, come along. The linen cupboard is this way.”
By the end of the first day, she was exhausted.
Her hands were raw, her back ached, and she’d made at least three mistakes that Mrs. Dawson had corrected with varying degrees of patience.
The first had been in the drawing room, where she’d attempted to dust a delicate porcelain figurine and nearly knocked it off its pedestal.
“Carefully, girl!” Mrs. Dawson had snapped, catching it just in time with catlike agility. “That piece is worth more than a year of your wages. Use two hands. Support the base.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Dawson,” Eliza had stammered, mortified. “Noted, Mrs. Dawson.”
“Apologies don’t mend broken China. Pay attention.”
The second mistake had been in the dining room, where she’d folded the napkins incorrectly before dinner.
“No, no, no,” Mrs. Dawson had sighed, unfolding one and demonstrating the proper technique. “Like this. See? The point faces left, the fold is crisp. Try again. It must be just right, or don’t do it at all. That’s what my mother taught me.”
Eliza had tried again. And again. By the fifth napkin, she’d got it right.
“Better,” Mrs. Dawson had said, though she hadn’t sounded particularly impressed.
The third mistake was the worst. Eliza had been tasked with polishing the silver in the butler’s pantry after dinner when she’d picked up an ornate serving spoon.
A small part of her brain was triggered at the sight of the crest engraved on the handle.
It was the same crest she’d seen before, in her past and not so distant former life.
At balls. At dinners. In the homes of families her parents had courted for alliances.
Her hands had started shaking. The spoon had slipped from her fingers and clattered onto the table.
“Miss Graham!” Mrs. Dawson had appeared in the doorway, her expression thunderous. “What on earth happened?”
“I’m so very sorry,” Eliza had said quickly, grabbing the spoon, as sweat prickled her brow. “It slipped. I’m so terribly sorry.”
Why am I so upset by a simple piece of silver? Get it together, Eliza!
Mrs. Dawson had studied her for a long moment, her gaze uncomfortably shrewd. “Are you unwell?”
“No, Mrs. Dawson. Just tired. From the travel, and learning so much, so far. But I’m happy to be here, and I’ll get used to the work… And I’ll be more careful!”
“See that you are.”
Now, as Eliza lay in her narrow bed in the servants’ quarters, staring at the ceiling, exhaustion warred with relief.
I am here in this room. Tomorrow is a new day, and I will excel at my work. I will give it my all. I am safe.
Her mind drifted then to her parents, who had no idea where she was. And even if they searched, they’d never think of looking for her among the staff of a duke’s country estate. But the thought of her parents brought another thought, sharp and painful.
Abigail.
Eliza closed her eyes, and immediately she was back on that cursed balcony, staring down at her friend’s broken, lifeless body. The pale blue dress. The red curls. The stillness. She pressed her hands to her face, fighting back tears.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered into the darkness. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you.”
If only she’d seen the signs sooner. If only she’d convinced Abigail to leave Whitfield before it was too late. If only they had run off together.
Eliza curled onto her side, pulling the thin blanket up to her chin. Sleep was a long time coming.
“Up, girl. There’s work to be done,” Mrs. Dawson called out the next morning, waking her before dawn with a rap on the door. “Rise and shine,” she said drily as she opened the door a crack.
“Yes, Mrs. Dawson,” Eliza called out as she rose out of bed and gave a small smile. “I will be right there.”
“Good,” she replied, shutting the door.
She dressed quickly in the plain gray servant’s dress and apron she had been provided, pinned her hair into a tight bun, and hurried to work.
The kitchen was already bustling. Cook was barking orders at two scullery maids, the footmen were carrying trays, and Mrs. Dawson was inspecting everything with the critical eye of a general surveying her troops.
“Miss Graham,” Mrs. Dawson said, meeting her gaze. “You’ll help Mary here with the breakfast trays this morning. His Grace takes his breakfast in his study. The boys take theirs in the nursery with Miss Winslow.”
“Yes, Mrs. Dawson,” she said with a nod to Mary.
Mary was a cheerful girl about Eliza’s age and grinned back at her. “Come on, then. I’ll show you how His Grace likes things.”
They worked quickly, assembling the trays with tea, toast, eggs, and stone fruit. Mary chattered as they worked, filling Eliza in on the household gossip.
“His Grace is particular about his tea,” Mary said. “No sugar, just a bit of milk. And don’t knock when you bring it in! Just leave it on the table outside his study door. He doesn’t like to be disturbed in the mornings.”
“Noted,” Eliza said, carefully balancing the tray.
“And whatever you do, don’t ever, ever go into his bedroom. Mrs. Dawson will have your head if you do!”
“She’s already told me, and His Grace.”
“Good. Some of the girls used to try, you know. Curious about what’s in there, poking their heads where they don’t belong. But His Grace doesn’t stand for it.”
Eliza frowned. “What do you mean, used to try?”
Mary leaned in conspiratorially. “He dismissed three maids last year for going where they shouldn’t.”
“Oh dear…”
“Don’t mistake my words! He’s generous and fair, but he won’t tolerate people poking about his private affairs, Ellie.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
They delivered the trays, Eliza to the study, Mary to the nursery. Eliza set the tray down on the small table outside the study door, as instructed, and turned to leave.
The door suddenly opened. Eliza froze. His Grace stood in the doorway, already dressed for the day, his cravat perfectly tied, his face radiant after a full night’s sleep and eyes glowing green.
“Miss Graham,” he said, and looked surprised to see her.
“Your Grace,” Eliza replied and curtsied quickly. “I apologize. I was just leaving this for you as instructed. I did not mean to disturb—”
“No need to apologize. You’re only doing as told.” His gaze flicked to the tray, then back to her. “How are you settling in on your second day?”
“Very well, Your Grace. Mrs. Dawson has been… thorough in her instruction.”
A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “I’m sure she has. Mrs. Dawson takes her duties very seriously.”
“She’s an excellent teacher, Your Grace.”
“Good…” He paused. “Well, carry on, Miss Graham.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Eliza hurried away, her heart pounding. Even that brief exchange had left her unsettled, which was a theme in her interactions with the Duke.
Each time she saw him felt more intense than the next, almost involuntary, and she couldn’t put her finger on it. There was something about the way he looked at her. His gaze was curious, assessing. It made her feel as though he could see straight through her lies.
She shook the thought away and returned to the kitchen.
By her third day, Eliza had found a rhythm.
She woke before dawn without a knock from Mrs. Dawson, dressed quickly and neatly, and reported to the kitchen for her day’s assignments.
She dusted, polished, scrubbed, and fetched without complaint.
Her hands grew steadier, her movements more confident with each new task. Even Mrs. Dawson noticed.
“You’re learning faster than I expected,” the housekeeper said as Eliza finished setting the table for dinner. “Most maids take weeks to master the napkins.”
“I had a good teacher,” Eliza said. “A patient one.”
Mrs. Dawson’s stern expression softened fractionally. “You’re not afraid of hard work. I respect that.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Dawson.”
“Don’t let it go to your head. There’s still plenty you don’t know.”
“Yes, Mrs. Dawson.”
As Eliza left the dining room, a small smile on her lips at the subtle compliment, she nearly collided with Miss Winslow. She was chasing after Arthur and Philip. The boys were laughing, dodging around furniture with practiced ease.
“Arthur! Philip! Slow down!” Miss Winslow called out, exasperated.
Oh, they enjoy this… Eliza thought as she stepped aside to let them pass.
Arthur flashed her a winning grin as he ran by. “Sorry, Miss!” he called over his shoulder.
“Don’t encourage them!” Miss Winslow said, though she was smiling. “Boys, back upstairs. Now.”
The boys groaned but obeyed then, thundering up the stairs to the nursery. Miss Winslow paused to catch her breath, shaking her head as she leaned against a column.
“They’re a handful,” she said to Eliza. “But they’re good boys. Just… energetic. Spirited, one might say.”
“They do seem lovely,” Eliza said genuinely.
“They are. Though I think they’re missing their uncle and aunt… They’ve been a bit out of sorts since we arrived just before you and His Grace.”