Chapter 6
Chapter Six
“Stop! Come back here!” Cook’s voice rang out, shrill with panic. “Those aren’t for playing with!”
Eliza was scrubbing the floor near the kitchens when chaos erupted.
Two small figures shot past Eliza in a blur of movement. Arthur and Philip, identical grins plastered across their flour-dusted faces, bolted into the hallway. Between them, they clutched a large bowl filled with what appeared to be half the contents of Cook’s pantry.
“Boys!” Eliza called, but they were already disappearing around the corner.
Cook appeared in the doorway, red-faced and furious. “Those little devils! They’ve taken my flour! I need that for tonight’s dinner!”
Eliza dropped her scrub brush and scrambled to her feet. “I’ll get them!”
She hitched up her skirts and ran after the boys, following the trail of white powder that marked their path. Their laughter echoed through the corridors, gleeful and utterly unrepentant.
“Arthur! Philip! Stop right there!”
They didn’t stop. Of course they didn’t.
Eliza rounded another corner and skidded to a halt. The boys had vanished. She stood in the hallway, breathing hard, listening.
A muffled giggle came from somewhere up the stairs, and so she ran up them quickly. She listened as she came to the landing, hearing their voices coming from down the left.
The family wing.
Oh no.
Eliza hurried down the corridor, her heart sinking as she reached the door to what she knew to be the Duke’s bedroom and private quarters. The door was ajar, and white powder dusted the threshold.
With a deep breath, she pushed the door open.
The scene that greeted her was somehow even worse than she’d imagined.
Flour covered nearly every surface. White powder coated the bed, the dresser, the Turkish rug.
Arthur and Philip stood in the center of the destruction, the now-empty bowl at their feet, looking suddenly far less confident about their adventure.
“Boys,” Eliza said, her voice tight. “You can’t come in here. You know that.”
“We didn’t mean to make such a mess,” Arthur said quickly. “We were just…”
“We were playing snow,” Philip finished, his lower lip trembling. “Like when we lived in France.”
Footsteps pounded down the corridor, and Miss Winslow burst through the door, her face pale as the snow they sought out. She took in the scene and clapped a hand over her mouth.
“Oh no. Oh no, no, no.” She looked at Eliza with wide, panicked eyes. “His Grace will dismiss me. He’ll…the boys…I should have been watching them more carefully… This is all my fault!”
“Miss Winslow,” Eliza said, her voice calm. “We can handle this. It will be all right, I promise.”
“But the room!”
“I’ll clean it. Right now. Before anyone else sees.” Eliza turned to the governess with a pitying smile. “Take the boys to their rooms and get them cleaned up. Quickly.”
“Ellie, I can’t let you do this. I cannot have you risk your own position—”
“Yes, you can. And you will.” Eliza looked at Arthur and Philip. “And these two are going to keep this a secret as well. Aren’t you?”
Both boys nodded vigorously.
“We promise,” Arthur whispered.
“We won’t tell anyone,” Philip added. “We swear it, Miss Ellie.”
“We won’t be so bad again,” Arthur added.
“I am unsure I believe that, but I do appreciate the sentiment, boys.” Miss Winslow’s eyes shone with gratitude. “Ellie, thank you.”
“Go,” Eliza said. “Now. Before Mrs. Dawson comes looking!”
“Perish the thought!” Miss Winslow cried as she ushered the boys out of the room.
Eliza waited until their footsteps faded, then surveyed the damage. She had perhaps twenty minutes before someone noticed she’d been gone too long.
I have to act fast!
She worked quickly, gathering cloths and a broom from the nearby supply closet. She started with the bed, carefully brushing the flour into a pile, then moved to the dresser, wiping down every surface carefully.
The Turkish rug was by far the worst. Flour had settled deep into the fibers. Eliza knelt and began beating it with the flat of her hand, sending up clouds of white dust as she sneezed.
She shifted her weight, bracing herself against the wall to take a deep breath. Suddenly, her hand pressed against something that gave way.
A soft click echoed through the room. Eliza froze. A section of the wall, a panel she’d assumed was solid, had shifted inward, revealing a narrow gap.
A hidden door?
Her heart hammering, Eliza glanced toward the bedroom door. Still closed. No footsteps in the corridor.
I should leave it alone. Close it. Pretend I have never seen it.
But in the end, curiosity won out. She pushed the panel fully open and peered inside.
It was a small closet. No other maid cleaning inside, thankfully. But what was inside made her breath catch.
Silk ribbons, neatly folded in shades of crimson and midnight blue.
Blindfolds made of soft black velvet. Venetian masks, ornate and beautiful, their surfaces gleaming in the dim light.
Fluffy ostrich feathers, arranged in an ornate crystal vase.
Small glass bottles filled with rich oils that caught the light like amber.
Eliza’s face burned.
She’d read about things like this. Once.
In a novel called The Highland Holiday Abigail had smuggled into her room, giggling and blushing.
The book hadn’t been explicit, but it had hinted at pleasures that existed beyond the bounds of propriety.
At games played in the dark by people who sought something more than duty.
This is… This is… the Duke of Kirkhammer’s private collection.
Eliza’s pulse raced as her blood ran hot. She reached out, her fingers hovering over one of the silk ribbons, then snatched her hand back.
No. No. No.
She shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t have seen this.
She carefully closed the panel, making sure it clicked back into place just as she’d found it. Then she returned to cleaning with renewed urgency, her mind spinning.
By the time she finished, the room looked immaculate. Every trace of flour gone. Every surface polished. The hidden door sealed, invisible once more. Eliza gathered her supplies and slipped out of the room, closing the door softly behind her. She made the sign of the cross in silent thanks.
She hurried down the corridor, her face still warm, her thoughts a chaotic jumble of silk and feathers and—
“Miss Graham.”
Eliza nearly dropped her bucket.
The Duke stood at the top of the stairs, still dressed in his riding clothes, his dark hair windblown, his eyes green as emeralds. He looked at her curiously, his eyebrow raised.
“Your Grace!” Eliza curtsied hastily, unable to meet his eyes. “I-I was just—”
“Is everything all right? You look flushed. Are you ill?”
“I’m fine, Your Grace. Just… Well, I have just been working hard.” Her voice came out higher than usual. “If you’ll excuse me.”
She didn’t wait for a response. She hurried past him and down the stairs, her heart pounding so loudly she was certain he could hear it.
Over the following days, Morgan found himself paying more attention to Ellie than he should.
He noticed when she passed through the hallway, her steps quick and efficient. He noticed when she spoke to Mrs. Dawson, her voice respectful but not servile. He noticed the way she smiled at the boys when she thought no one was watching.
“Mrs. Dawson,” he said one afternoon, catching the housekeeper in the corridor when returning from checking on tenant farmers. “How is Miss Graham settling in?”
Mrs. Dawson looked surprised by the question. “Very well, Your Grace. She’s a quick learner. Diligent. The boys have taken quite a liking to her as well.”
“Good. That’s… good.”
Mrs. Dawson studied him for a moment, her expression unreadable. “Is there anything specific you need, Your Grace? Any areas of concern I should note?”
“No. Just curious.” Morgan paused. “She seems… competent.”
“She is, Your Grace.”
“Excellent. Carry on, then.”
He walked away before Mrs. Dawson could ask any more questions, aware that he was behaving oddly and unable to stop himself.
Later that week, his solicitor, Mr. Blackwood, arrived for their regular meeting whenever he was at Kirkhammer Hall.
They sat in Morgan’s study, reviewing accounts and discussing various tenant issues he had noted in his visits.
Morgan listened with half his attention, signing documents and nodding at appropriate intervals.
“There’s also the matter of the Haverford property,” Mr. Blackwood was saying. “The tenant has requested an extension on his lease—”
“Granted,” Morgan said.
“Very good, Your Grace.” Mr. Blackwood made a note. “Oh, and I heard some news from London. Might interest you.”
“Oh?”
“Lord and Lady Ramersby’s daughter has disappeared. Apparently just before she was to be married to Lord Whitfield.”
Morgan glanced up. “Whitfield? Wasn’t his wife just…”
“Indeed. Died in a fall barely a month ago. Bit unseemly, if you ask me, arranging another marriage so soon.” Mr. Blackwood shook his head.
“I heard whispers about the Ramersbys’ daughter running away.
If that is the case, then the Ramersbys must be beside themselves.
I’ve heard that they owe some money to Whitfield, though I cannot confirm.
Either way, it’s quite a bit of embarrassment. ”
“Unfortunate,” Morgan said, returning his attention to the papers in front of him; London society drama held little interest for him at the best of times.
“Quite. Now, about the drainage system near the east field…” Mr. Blackwood began, as Morgan willed himself to focus.
Once this is done, I’ll ride into the village, Morgan told himself. Maybe spend some time at the tavern. Clear my head.
That evening, after one more hour of paperwork and business transactions, he did exactly that. He sat alone in the smoky tavern, nursing a pint, determined not to think about blonde maids with secrets in their eyes.
Don’t think about her. Don’t think about those hazel eyes.