Chapter 3
Chapter Three
“And here’s Her Majesty, the Exalted Dog Nanny.”
Morrigan Turner grimaced as she came into the manor kitchen the next day, but it was hard to be angry at the mischievous grin on Tom Bailey’s face.
The tall, sandy-haired footman loved to tease.
She’d figured that out her very first day at the manor, the same day she’d found herself admiring those broad shoulders and long legs.
“I’m not the queen, Anastasia is,” Morrigan declared, sashaying over to the worktable in the middle of the kitchen.
Unlike the last house where she’d worked, the manor’s kitchen was warm, welcoming, and well-run, from the ceiling racks holding gleaming pots and pans to the spotless flagstone floor.
“I could tell you tales.” She winked at Mrs. Bettleton, the cook, who shook her grey head with a wry smile.
Bailey curled his lanky frame onto the bench beside the table where the staff took their meals. “Hard work keeping up with the little thing, is it?”
“Oh, terrible!” Morrigan lamented, putting the back of her hand to her brow.
“She quite runs me off me legs.” Now she started to sound like her Irish mother, for all Morrigan had been born and raised in London.
She’d never dreamed such places as Tyneham Manor actually existed until her older sister had answered an advertisement for staff wanted here and sent Morrigan for the interview.
So many rooms! So much land! She still wasn’t sure what the dukes of Tyneham did with it all.
Bailey watched as she tucked her hair up under her cap to protect it. He had fine eyes, brown and deep, like the chocolate Her Grace the Second favored for breakfast. “Perhaps you should have a nap, then,” he suggested, “while the rest of us see to Queen Anastasia’s empire.”
“I’m sure Mrs. Carmichael has a task for her,” Mrs. Bettleton scolded.
Mrs. Carmichael was the housekeeper, the person in charge of all the female staff like Morrigan and her friend Dorcus.
Unlike the last housekeeper Morrigan had worked for, Mrs. Carmichael didn’t look down her nose at the other staff, though she had a brisk, no-nonsense approach to work.
Morrigan had liked her on first introduction as well.
But instead of the fair-haired housekeeper, their dark-haired butler, Mr. Kinsle, strode into the room.
He was only a few years older than Bailey and Morrigan, but she’d heard tales of how he’d worked his way up from potboy to earn the respect of the current duke.
The butler must have caught the last of her and Bailey’s conversation, for Mr. Kinsle aimed an arched brow toward the staff table.
“I’d watch my tone if I were you, Bailey. Your work for this morning will be even less interesting than Morrigan’s. Her Grace the Second wants someone to watch a hedgerow.”
Bailey blinked. “A hedgerow?”
Morrigan started grinning.
“A hedgerow,” Mr. Kinsle insisted. “You are to watch it and report if you see anyone near it. Her Grace will want a full description of the culprit.”
Culprit? Morrigan had fled London because of this sort of thing. A chill went through her. “What does she suspect the fellow did, Mr. Kinsle?”
“I haven’t the faintest notion,” he said with a glance her direction. “Ours is not to question why.” He returned his gaze to Bailey. “Put on your greatcoat, and off you go. Morrigan, I believe Mrs. Carmichael wants you to help Dorcus if you find yourself free.”
“Yes, Mr. Kinsle,” Morrigan said.
She thought she heard Bailey grumbling as she passed him.
“Try not to get too cold,” she teased.
He chuckled and knuckled his forehead at her.
Dorcus managed the downstairs cleaning and tidying.
She was a few years older than Morrigan, and her blond hair was more golden than Morrigan’s reddish blond.
Morrigan had originally been hired to help Dorcus and any of the upstairs maids who needed help, but when she’d proven adept in seeing to Anastasia, Her Grace the Second had insisted on Morrigan being appointed to the role permanently.
She didn’t mind most days. Despite what she’d said in the kitchen, little Anastasia was a dear, and it didn’t take much to keep her entertained and safe. But sometimes, Morrigan wondered whether she ought to be doing something more for her pay and the chance to live among all this.
So, she joined Dorcus in polishing the wood in the sitting room. Goodness knew, there was a lot of it! Like much of Tyneham Manor, each wall was covered in dark wood, and the side tables and trestle table along one wall required a shine as well.
“What we need is a footman,” the other maid complained, squeezing behind the rose-colored curved-back sofa to reach more of the wall. “That Bailey—never around when you want him!”
“He’s not a bad sort,” Morrigan allowed, crossing the carpet, which was patterned in concentric circles of roses, vines, and diamonds, to start on the opposite wall. “But he can’t stop teasing.”
“That’s the truth.” Dorcus wrinkled her nose as if trying to make out her hazy reflection in the wood. “Though his sister Sally says he’s a bit resentful of you lot.”
Sally, Bailey’s younger sister, popped up at the manor nearly every day.
Too old for schooling and with no vocation except helping her ailing mum, she’d wheedle a treat from Mrs. Bettleton or a moment of gossip with Dorcus or one of the other maids who had been at Tyneham Manor since before His Grace had arrived.
The two groups of servants sometimes rubbed against each other badly, but between Mrs. Carmichael, who had come with the new batch like Morrigan, and Mr. Kinsle, the peace generally held.
“The duke’s entitled to hire who he likes,” Morrigan pointed out as she buffed at a smudge on the wood. What, had someone run face first into the thing?
“Oh, to be sure,” Dorcus allowed. “And we needed more staff at the manor. But I think Sally was hoping for something to do besides tend to her mum. Bailey’s sister would be a good one to watch Anastasia. And his family needs the money.”
Something poked at her. “Bailey have a wife and children at home, does he?”
Dorcus laughed. “Him? No! He gives most of his pay to his mother and sister, but it seems it isn’t always enough.”
That Morrigan understood. She’d also left too many mouths to feed at home. Her oldest sister, Anne, had worked in service for several years before helping Morrigan find a spot. If it hadn’t been for the trouble at her last post, she might still be in London.
“Morrigan!” Another of the footmen, Popsby, skidded to a stop in the doorway, black tailcoat flapping. “Her Grace the Second wants you in the withdrawing room. Miss Anastasia needs to go out.”
“Duty calls,” Morrigan told Dorcus with a regretful smile as she set aside her dust rag. Pulling off her working cap and running her fingers through her hair to tidy it, she headed for the withdrawing room on the next story.
It took her only a moment to collect the pug and walk Anastasia downstairs into the garden.
As usual, the dog sniffed at this plant and that clump of grass before doing what she’d come outside to do.
At least Morrigan didn’t have to clean up after her.
The gardeners would take away the evidence before any of the residents of Tyneham Manor were troubled by it.
“Must be nice,” she murmured to the pug as Anastasia trotted along the flower bed that ran from the manor toward the dower house. “You make a mess. Someone else cleans it up.”
A shame it wasn’t that easy in Morrigan’s life. Of course, she hadn’t been the one to make the mess in London, just the one who’d had to live with the consequences.
Anastasia scampered along the flowers toward the trees at the end of the formal garden. Morrigan caught a glimpse of the rooftop of the dower house beyond. She’d been told it was too small for the three dowager duchesses, but it was still larger than any place her family had lived.
“That’s far enough,” she called to Anastasia, who was heading for the trees. The pug kept going, and Morrigan tugged on the leash. Anastasia stopped and looked back, curly tail circling. How did Her Grace ever refuse the little darling anything?
Morrigan smiled as she caught up with the pug. “Well, perhaps just a little farther, though I can’t imagine it takes much to stretch those legs of yours.”
Anastasia yipped happily and set off again.
They wound through the trees, footsteps hushed on the scattered leaves from the winter. The quiet wrapped around Morrigan like a blanket, and she took a deep breath of the cool, moist air.
She thought Anastasia might tire of nosing around, but the pug pushed right through to the other side, where hedgerows and more lines of trees divided the tenant fields.
Bailey was stalking up and down along the closest row, glower on his face and arms swinging, as if he hoped to throw a punch at someone.
Morrigan shook her head even as Anastasia pulled on the leash to see her friend.
“You’re not doing the least good,” Morrigan scolded him as they came up to him. “The fellow in the hedgerow is going to see you!”
Bailey stopped, then bent to scritch Anastasia behind her ears, setting her rear to wiggling. “Well, I can’t stay hunkered down. The breeze is too cold!”
“You’re a local lad,” Morrigan reminded him. “You must know where to stand out of the wind.”
He frowned, glancing around as if truly noticing his surroundings for the first time. Perhaps someday she’d be so used to the grandeur of the Tyneham estate that she no longer saw it either.
But she hoped not.
He strode into the wood and ducked behind the first tree. Morrigan walked Anastasia to join him. The pug snuffled all over his boots, then went from trunk to trunk investigating.
“Squirrels,” Bailey mused. “Hedgehogs, birds. This place must be like a treasure trove for her.”
Morrigan laughed. “At least she’s not likely to run into the rats we had in London. Some were nearly as big as she is!”