Chapter Six
Two Days Later
The rain that had begun the night Jenny went to visit her parents had not stopped once. For two whole days, the world had been shrouded in a grey veil, the dim light filtering through it and dulling every corner of the schoolroom and of Maggie’s little chamber.
She had scarcely ventured beyond those two rooms. Each day followed the same pattern—from her chamber to the nursery, thence to the schoolroom, and back again.
There was no room for her below stairs now; the incessant rain had driven the gardeners and outdoor hands indoors, and Mrs Thornton had asked her to take her meals in her room until the weather cleared.
Maggie did not mind. Jenny had been sure she would soon break the ice and grow comfortable among the servants, but until that day came, mealtimes were awkward affairs.
She had sat in mortified silence, terrified of slurping her soup or dropping a crumb upon the spotless floor, lest anyone think her careless or affected.
Each afternoon, she had set aside an hour for exercise in the grounds, but the rain had ruined that plan.
Emma had been sorely disappointed, for she had already marked several favourite spots to paint—bright lawns, a little bridge over the stream, a cluster of old oaks that she said looked like “giants at a dance.” Maggie had thought painting from life might be a wholesome change from the fanciful garden scenes Emma conjured from imagination
Two days had gone by, and there was no sign of the Duke. At first, Maggie had lived in hourly dread that he would appear without warning, sit in upon her lessons, and pronounce her unfit. Where would she go then? She had no answer. But she had seen neither hide nor hair of the duke.
As far as she knew, he had not been near the nursery or the schoolroom. He had not invited his niece to dine with him, which meant, of course, that she had not been invited either.
Which was perfectly fine. She had seen the man once, and once was quite enough.
He might be handsome enough to look at—handsomer still if he should ever smile—but he did not smile, and he would surely open his mouth and ruin the illusion.
For all she knew, he might not even be in the house.
If he were gone, no one would think to tell her.
He is probably trying to ignore my existence, she thought, and I am doing the same for his.
The first weeks, she knew, would be difficult. Once she had a month’s wages in hand, she might at least afford a roof over her head for a little while. But the money would not last long.
Don’t think of that, she told herself, realising with a start that she had been standing at the blackboard, chalk poised, for several minutes without writing a word.
When she turned, Emma was not even looking at her. The child sat by the window, chin in her hand, gazing out at the curtain of rain. Jenny was in her corner, the steady click-clack of her knitting needles the only sound in the room.
The schoolroom was large and orderly—four desks, four chairs, and a teacher’s table at the front. Emma’s chosen seat was the one nearest the window; she had told Maggie that Mrs Ruthborne and Miss Lawless had forbidden her to sit there. Miss Swaddle, apparently, had not cared one way or another.
Droplets raced each other down the glass, distorting the view of the garden until it was nothing but grey and green blurs.
“Miss Emma?” Maggie said softly. “Your French exercise?”
Emma started and flushed. The paper before her was blank.
“I… I haven’t started it, Miss Winter.”
Maggie crossed the room to stand beside her. “That’s all right. Tell me what part troubles you. We’ll work through it together.”
Emma bit her lip. “I can’t concentrate, Miss Winter. I feel very…” she frowned, searching for the word. “Very maudlin.”
Maggie hid a smile. “Yesterday’s word of the day,” she murmured. “And do you remember today’s?”
“Facetious,” Emma said solemnly.
“Excellent. Now—why do you feel maudlin, my dear?”
Emma wrinkled her brow. “I don’t know.”
Maggie crouched beside her. “Feelings are quite natural, you know. It would be strange not to have them. But when we feel something strongly, we must always try to find the cause. Feelings may rule us, if we let them—but if we understand them, they have less power.”
Emma considered this gravely, her small forehead furrowed. “I miss Uncle,” she said at last. “I haven’t seen him for three whole days.”
“Well, could you not visit him in his study?”
She shook her head. “I’m not allowed.”
“Well, I suppose we must just wait then, mustn’t we? He is a very busy man. In the meantime, what might we do to lift your spirits?”
Emma thought again, then traced a finger through the condensation on the windowpane. “I want to go outside.”
Maggie sighed. “I know, my dear. So do I. But it’s raining too hard—we’d be soaked to the bone and sneezing by evening.”
“I know.”
Maggie studied her for a moment. Then an idea struck.
“There’s nothing worse than a rainy day,” she said at last. “I hated them when I was your age. Well then, you don’t feel like French exercises, do you? Let us do something else.”
Emma’s eyes brightened. “Painting?”
“We could paint,” Maggie said thoughtfully, “but I think we’ve had quite enough of this room for one day.”
“The nursery, then?”
Maggie shook her head with a grin. “No. I thought we might explore the house.”
Jenny’s needles stopped clicking. Emma, however, beamed.
“Explore?” she repeated.
“Is that wise, Maggie?” Jenny asked, frowning slightly.
“Perfectly. I lose my way every time I step beyond the schoolroom—perhaps Miss Emma can show me the way. We might even finish our expedition in the kitchen, where Cook might be persuaded to grant a certain little lady a jam tart.”
Emma clapped her hands. “I love jam tarts!”
Maggie lifted an eyebrow at Jenny. If the nursemaid disapproved, that would be the end of it. But after a brief hesitation, Jenny nodded.
“Everyone’s about their duties just now,” she said at last. “There’s no harm in it.”
***
“This,” Emma announced with an air of gravity, “is the Great Hall.”
Maggie fought not to gape. She considered herself a gentleman’s daughter, accustomed to refinement. But this—this was something else entirely.
The Great Hall could easily have swallowed her father’s entire London house. The ceiling soared high above them, gilded and moulded, while their footsteps echoed upon the marble floor. The air was chill and faintly draughty. Even a dozen roaring fireplaces could not have warmed that vast space.
Emma skipped ahead, her small shoes clacking on the floor. Jenny and Maggie followed at a slower pace, heads tilted to admire the portraits lining the walls.
“I don’t much like walking through here,” Jenny confided. “I always feel as though the old Burenwoods are glowering down at me.”
Maggie swallowed. “I can see what you mean.”
Some of the portraits were extremely old—severe men and stiffly robed women in padded velvet, their starched ruffs framing faces that had forgotten how to smile.
“Their eyes follow one,” Maggie murmured. “And I daresay they disapprove.”
“I imagine they disapprove of everything.”
They both stifled laughter, and Jenny linked her arm through Maggie’s. The gesture was companionable—warm.
How long has it been since I had a friend? she wondered. Papa frightened them all away. And when we lost our fortune, the rest melted like snow.
Before she could dwell on the thought, she noticed that the rhythmic click of Emma’s shoes had stopped. The little girl stood some yards ahead, staring fixedly at what appeared to be a blank stretch of wall.
When Maggie and Jenny drew nearer, she saw that Emma’s gaze was fixed on a small, narrow door set deep into the panelling.
“Miss Emma, dearest,” Maggie said softly. “What are you looking at?”
“This was Mama’s favourite room,” Emma said in a hushed voice. “Uncle told me. It was her parlour. She spent hours here.”
The air seemed to grow colder. Maggie laid a hand upon her shoulder.
“Perhaps your uncle might let you have it for your own one day,” she said gently.
Emma shook her head. “He won’t. He won’t even let me look inside. The door’s always locked.”
“Always?” Maggie turned to Jenny, frowning. “Surely she’s allowed to peek inside?”
Jenny was beginning to look uncomfortable. “His Grace has rules, Maggie. It is his house—and we are expected to keep to them.”
Maggie stepped closer to the door, inspecting it. Plain white paint, a simple brass knob and keyhole—nothing remarkable.
Why would he forbid her this? she thought. Surely he does not understand what it means to her.
“We might take a little look,” she suggested impulsively.
Emma’s eyes widened. “Could we?”
Jenny shook her head. “It’s not a good idea.”
But Maggie’s hand was already on the doorknob. It would doubtless be locked, and then it would end there—safely, harmlessly. But at least Emma would know she had tried.
Jenny’s hand caught her arm. “His Grace is particular about this room,” she whispered urgently. “He used to spend all his time here with his sister—and her husband, and Mr Middleton. I think it’s locked for the memories. We ought not intrude.”
“I understand,” Maggie murmured, “but Jenny, I know what it is to be without a parent. To love through stories and objects instead of faces and voices. Miss Emma only knows her mother from her uncle’s tales—and sometimes that isn’t enough.”
Jenny’s face closed with a snap. “Perhaps. But it isn’t for us to say what’s enough for her and what’s not. You’re her governess, I’m her nursemaid—but his Grace is her guardian. His Grace decides.”
A silence fell. Emma stood between them, eyes wide and uncertain. Maggie met Jenny’s gaze and lifted her chin.
“His Grace will never know,” she said quietly.
“Maggie…” Jenny whispered, paling.
“Nobody’s here. You won’t tell him, will you?”
Jenny hesitated. “Of course not, but—”
“Then we’ve nothing to fear,” Maggie said briskly—and turned the handle.
Click.
The latch gave way. The door swung open on silent hinges, releasing a breath of stale, dusty air. Jenny gasped. Emma said nothing.
Maggie stumbled forward, her foot catching on the low step inside. She steadied herself, heart hammering. The room beyond was brighter than she’d expected—almost dazzling after the dim corridor.
Too late to turn back now.
Emma darted past her, running into the centre of the room.
“It’s like snow,” she whispered in awe.