Chapter 4
She kept her face composed until he left the room. Then the full weight of what she had just done landed on her like a stone.
The real Eliza Hartley. She had not thought about her once since walking through the door.
But Eliza existed. She was a real person with a letter of recommendation and a scheduled interview, and at some point that day or the next, she might arrive at Langley Hall and ask why the position had already been filled.
And then someone would say but we already have a Miss Hartley and the whole thing would collapse before it had properly begun.
Think, Thelma told herself. Think.
She needed information. She needed to know whether Eliza was the kind of woman who would fight for a position or simply move to the next agency listing. She needed to know whether the agency would send a follow-up inquiry. She needed…
Liliana grabbed her finger.
Thelma looked down. The baby was watching her with those gray, serious eyes, entirely unbothered by the crisis unfolding above her head.
One thing at a time, Thelma thought. I am here. Liliana is here. One thing at a time.
***
The housekeeper’s name was Mrs. Ames, and she moved through Langley Hall like a woman who had already seen every possible drama the house could offer and had quietly judged most of it.
The entrance hall alone was larger than Thelma's entire childhood home.
She had understood this in a general way when she first walked through the door but she had been too frightened then to truly see it.
Now, following Mrs. Ames through the ground floor at a measured pace, she saw it properly for the first time.
The ceilings were extraordinary, coffered plasterwork painted the color of old cream, picked out in gilt that caught the weak morning light and threw it back in warm fragments.
Portraits lined the main corridor in heavy gilt frames, generation after generation of Langleys looking out with the same gray-green eyes and the same expression of mild, aristocratic judgment.
The floors were polished stone on the ground level, dark and cool, and the rugs that ran along them were so fine that Thelma felt guilty walking on them.
Every table held something, a vase of hothouse flowers that must have cost more than a week's wages, a silver inkstand that would have paid her father's solicitor for a month, a clockwork piece under a glass dome that she did not dare look at too long in case she accidentally wanted it.
"His Grace's grandmother selected these curtains herself," Mrs. Ames said as they stepped into the Blue Drawing Room.
She gestured toward the tall windows with a neat sweep of her hand.
"That was back in eighteen hundred and three.
She told everyone the old ones looked like someone had drowned a strawberry in them. "
The curtains in question were heavy silk damask, deep blue-green, pooling on the floor in a way that suggested the person who hemmed them had been told length was not a concern. The room had three fireplaces. Three. Thelma counted them.
"I see," Thelma said, which was all she could manage.
Thelma nodded politely and tried to commit every detail to memory.
The layout of the corridors, the names of the rooms, the faces and positions of the staff.
Mrs. Ames had been guiding her through the house for the past twenty minutes, and Thelma’s head was already spinning with the sheer size and complexity of it all.
“The late duke preferred the east wing for his private quarters,” Mrs. Ames continued in her calm, measured voice.
“His Grace uses the same rooms now, though he has made a few changes of his own. The study on the ground floor is where he conducts most of his business. You will not need to go there unless you are specifically summoned.”
“I understand,” Thelma replied.
“The servants’ stairs are at the north end of the main corridor. You will use those when moving between floors, except when you are with the baby, accompanying Her Grace, the duke’s mother, or carrying anything too large or delicate for the narrower steps.”
“Of course.”
Mrs. Ames stopped walking and turned to face Thelma directly. Her brown hair was streaked with gray at the temples and pinned back so tightly that Thelma wondered how she could stand it all day.
The housekeeper’s eyes were a warm hazelnut color, but they studied Thelma with sharp, unflinching focus, as though she were cataloging every freckle and thread on her gown.
“As the nursery is on the first floor,” Mrs. Ames went on, “two doors down from His Grace’s private sitting room, you will have the small bedchamber right beside it. I hope you will find it comfortable.”
“I am sure I will be quite comfortable there. Thank you.”
Mrs. Ames tilted her head slightly, still watching her. “You are very quiet, Miss Hartley.”
“I am listening carefully, Mrs. Ames.”
“That is not quite the same thing, is it?”
Thelma offered no reply. She simply held the older woman’s gaze as steadily as she could. After another long moment, Mrs. Ames gave a small nod and continued down the corridor. Thelma followed a step behind, her heart beating faster than the slow pace of their walk should have allowed.
She is watching me, Thelma thought. They are all watching me. I must give them nothing to see. Nothing at all.
The kitchen, when they finally reached it, was a welcome contrast to the rest of the house. It was warm, loud, and filled with the comforting smell of fresh bread baking. A woman in her early thirties stood at the long wooden table, her dark brown hair escaping from its pins in messy tendrils.
Flour covered her hands and dusted the front of her apron. She looked up as Mrs. Ames entered, and her bright eyes landed on Thelma with open, friendly curiosity.
“This is Miss Hartley,” Mrs. Ames announced. “The new nursemaid for Liliana. Miss Hartley, this is Patricia Bullock, our cook.”
Patricia wiped her hands on her apron and stepped forward, extending one without hesitation. Thelma shook it. The cook’s grip was strong, warm, and lingered just a moment longer than expected.
“A proper nursemaid at last,” Patricia said with clear relief.
“That temporary woman they brought in from the village, Mrs. Cooper, was a disaster. She put so much butter on everything that I thought I might cry. Have you ever seen a baby try to eat buttered toast? It is not a pretty sight, I can tell you that.”
“I cannot say that I have,” Thelma answered, managing a small smile.
“Well, you will soon enough.” Patricia grinned as she picked up a knife and began chopping carrots with quick, confident strokes.
“Liliana has very strong opinions about food. Yesterday, she made her feelings about the porridge clear by throwing it straight at the wall. I liked her immediately after that.”
Thelma felt a sharp twist in her chest. Liliana threw porridge at the wall. Of course, she had. At home she used to do the same thing. Yvette would laugh until she cried and declare that her daughter was going to be a handful one day.
“Is she eating well otherwise?” Thelma asked, trying hard to keep her voice casual and only partly succeeding.
“Oh, she eats everything we give her. Except the porridge, of course.” Patricia laughed softly.
“The duke has been beside himself about it all. He does not say much, mind you. He never does. But he has come down to this kitchen three times since the baby arrived, asking detailed questions about her feeding schedule, whether she is getting enough milk, and did we know she prefers to be bounced rather than rocked.”
Mrs. Ames made a small sound that might have been approval. “His Grace is very attentive to her needs.”
“His Grace is terrified,” Patricia corrected cheerfully, still chopping. “And it is the most wonderful thing I have ever seen. A big, serious duke pacing around asking about milk and bouncing. Who would have thought?”
Thelma stored every word away carefully. His Grace is terrified. The duke asks about feeding schedules. The duke bounces her instead of rocking her.
She had walked through the front door expecting a cold, distant man. Someone who would keep Liliana at arm’s length, hand her off to servants, and try to forget she existed. That was the picture she had prepared herself to face.
She was not sure what to do with the idea of a duke who came down to the kitchen to worry about whether his unexpected baby was being fed properly.
Mrs. Ames introduced her to the rest of the household staff as they moved through the servants’ areas.
Mary, the young housemaid, was only seventeen, with a face full of freckles and bright, inquisitive eyes.
She immediately asked Thelma where she had bought her gray gown and whether it came with extra fabric for letting out the seams.
Mr. Hodges, the steward, was a serious, middle-aged man who barely looked up from the ledger on his desk.
He gave her one short nod and returned to his papers without saying a single word.
A young footman whose name Thelma forgot almost instantly shook her hand with enthusiasm, appearing glad to be getting rid of the previous nursemaid.
“You will find,” Mrs. Ames said as they climbed the stairs to the first floor, “that this household runs best when everyone tends to their own responsibilities and does not interfere with anyone else’s.
If you encounter any problems, you bring them to me.
If I cannot resolve them, then and only then do I bring them to His Grace.
That is the order of things here at Langley. ”
“I understand,” Thelma replied.
Mrs. Ames paused on the landing and turned to study her again. “Do you?”