Chapter 15
A fortnight after the invitations were sent, every one was returned with an acceptance—much to Charlotte’s confusion.
‘Why do you suppose they are coming, despite knowing that Lord Stanley is the Chief Magistrate?’ she asked Sarah.
‘Well, it is obvious, is it not? They must all behave as though nothing is amiss. Attending a house party—one held each year—is expected. If any one of them refused, it would immediately appear suspicious.’
‘But only I heard that they attended this house party last year.’
‘Remember—everyone in the card room heard you when you said Matthew Stanley poisoned Lord Stanley’s drink. The foolish boy admitted as much in the stable to that Wolf fellow as well. So the Odd Fellows will be on their best behaviour, for fear Lord Stanley may suspect a plot against him.’
‘Or perhaps they are coming to try again,’ Charlotte said darkly. ‘What better opportunity than a house filled with guests? They could make it look like a hunting accident... or something equally unfortunate.’ She shuddered.
At that moment, they heard Mrs Dent’s approaching steps and fell silent.
‘I really cannot believe these young folk nowadays—no work ethic,’ she grumbled, entering with Charlotte’s tea tray.
‘What has happened, Mrs Dent?’ Charlotte asked, startled.
‘Lucy did not turn up for work today. Not a word of warning—only a hastily written letter of resignation,’ came the reply.
‘That is strange,’ Charlotte said. ‘Lucy seemed quite eager to remain only the other day.’
‘Well, she left this letter in her room, saying she would not be returning.’ Mrs Dent brandished it. Charlotte took it. It was indeed in Lucy’s hand and said precisely as much.
‘And now I must do her duties myself, as all the other maids are occupied with preparations for the house party—as though I have not enough to do already. You would not object if I borrowed Sarah for a few days, until we find a replacement?’
Charlotte glanced at Sarah, who looked horrified at the prospect of being borrowed. She wondered why Mrs Dent had bothered to ask at all when refusal was hardly an option.
‘That is quite all right, Mrs Dent. I can manage on my own with Master Tom for a few days.’
Charlotte resigned herself to spending more time enduring the little devil and sighed inwardly.
Mrs Dent smiled stiffly. ‘That would be most helpful.’
Unable to shake the feeling that something was wrong, Charlotte asked, ‘Does Lucy have any family here?’
‘No. Many of the maids were hired from the workhouse. Lucy was among them.’
Charlotte raised a brow. ‘All of them?’
‘Not all. Only the lower staff. Higher staff, like yourself, are more carefully chosen.’
‘So Lucy is an orphan?’
‘No family has ever claimed her, at least.’ She shrugged her bony shoulder.
‘How strange that she would leave when good work is so hard to come by. She never said a word to me about being unhappy—I cannot imagine her finding a better post.’
‘Goodness, child—unhappy? Why would she be? She had good wages, food, and a roof over her head. There is always a bit of rivalry among the girls, but it is the same everywhere. If you ask me, she has likely run off with some beau.’
‘She did mention something of a beau...’
‘Maids are not permitted romantic entanglements with the staff. If they marry or become pregnant, they must give notice.’
Charlotte looked mildly disapproving. It was a harsh rule, though not uncommon.
A pregnant maid would almost certainly be dismissed without a reference.
Perhaps that was the reason. Still, she felt a flicker of disappointment that Lucy had not confided in them—or even dropped a hint.
But why would she, when they had known each other only a matter of weeks?
Sarah followed Mrs Dent out, though not before casting Charlotte a glare. Charlotte shrugged sheepishly, then took a steadying breath, bracing herself for a full day alone with Tom.
Charlotte readied Tom for bed that evening, a duty Sarah would normally perform. As he lay down, he turned towards her.
‘Where did you come from?’ he asked.
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘Uncle said you are like an Indian rubber ball. Made of hard stuff that bounces back. How did you get made?’
Charlotte chuckled, a little flustered—and slightly insulted by the less-than-flattering compliment. ‘Well, Master Tom, rubber balls are made using heat. I suppose I was made from harsh words and ridicule.’
Tom looked thoughtful. ‘You’re not like the others, you know.’
‘You mean the other governesses you scared off?’
He looked sheepish. ‘But you’re still here.’
‘Yes. And I’ll stay until you do not need me anymore.’
Something flickered in his expression—relief, pain, hope.
‘Would you like a bedtime story?’
He nodded enthusiastically. ‘No one reads me stories except you.’
‘Well, that’s a crying shame. My father used to read to me every night.’ A tightness gripped her chest at the memory.
She fetched a book from the schoolroom and read aloud. Her voice was gentle and soothing, and soon enough the boy drifted off to sleep. Charlotte hoped he was softening towards her and perhaps letting her into his little world.
The next morning, she was woken by shrieking from Tom’s room.
‘You wicked boy! At your age—it’s just shameful!’ Mrs Dent’s voice rang through the corridor.
Charlotte rushed in to find Tom cowering in the corner while Mrs Dent pointed furiously at a wet patch on the mattress.
‘I’ve got enough to do, and now this! As if I do not have a hundred other things on my plate—!’
‘That’s enough, Mrs Dent,’ Charlotte interrupted, her voice sharper than intended. ‘Please stop your caterwauling.’
Mrs Dent gaped at her. ‘How dare you speak to me that way! I shall report you to Mrs Wilberforce. To Lord Stanley himself!’
Charlotte crossed her arms. ‘Go ahead.’
With a huff, Mrs Dent stormed out.
Charlotte turned to Tom. ‘Come on, no need to be frightened. It’s not your fault. Now help me change the sheets.’
The boy nodded gratefully.
Charlotte continued her morning routine with Tom and managed to make more progress with his reading; he was learning fast. She suspected he had learnt some reading before but had not practised in a while. He seemed to be recalling some of his prior lessons now.
Sarah joined them for luncheon, looking a little worn out.
‘I do not know why they are so short on servants. There are plenty of people looking for work,’ Sarah bemoaned as she massaged her arms. ‘I was made to wash all the dishes, then help the cook.’
Charlotte gave her a pitying look. ‘Let us hope they find a replacement soon.’
Sarah sniffed. ‘Maybe Lucy ran away to get away from that old crone, Mrs Dent. I am sure that woman does not know how to smile. The rest of the staff despise her too.’
Charlotte grimaced. ‘I may have contributed to her ill temper today. I had a slight argument with her.’
‘Well, they cannot dismiss you. I am certain they will be hard-pressed to find anyone willing to replace you.’ She inclined her head towards the boy and rolled her eyes.
Charlotte smiled; despite everything, the child was beginning to grow upon her.
‘I would wager the old crone will not have the courage to complain to Lord Stanley. Mrs Wilberforce all but reveres you for remaining longer than a month,’ Sarah declared confidently, only to be immediately contradicted when a footman appeared at the door.
Charlotte was summoned to the study.
Her heart sank. Oh no. If she were to be dismissed, what would become of her? Must she truly resort to the workhouse?
But Sarah only waved a hand dismissively. ‘Do not underestimate yourself. Stand your ground—and do not allow that woman the advantage.’
At this, Charlotte felt a wrench as she recalled her father’s parting counsel: stand your ground. She managed a faint smile and made her way to the study as though walking in a funeral procession. Her recent encounters with Lord Stanley returned to her mind—each more mortifying than the last.
He already considers you half-witted and wholly incompetent—and now this.
Murmuring a silent prayer, she tapped lightly upon the door.
‘Come in,’ came the deep voice from within.
She entered Lord Stanley’s study—a room of unmistakably masculine character, dominated by a vast mahogany desk and carrying the scent of leather, ink, and something distinctly him.
Her eyes fell at once upon the ornate Ottoman dagger resting upon the mantel, the prayer beads coiled beside scattered books and papers.
Then she noticed him.
Kneeling upon the rug.
He did not look up immediately, but continued reading from a great book filled with swirling foreign script. He recited in a beautiful cadence, and Charlotte found herself utterly mesmerised by the sound of it.
At last, sensing her presence, he closed the book quietly and rose to his feet.
‘It is the Holy Qur’an,’ he said.
‘It is beautiful,’ she replied without thinking.
For a brief moment, silence lingered between them. Something unreadable flickered across his expression before the familiar trace of sarcasm returned.
‘You have been making yourself rather conspicuous, Miss Lucas,’ he said, setting the book upon its stand. ‘For someone eager to remain unseen.’ A faint smile touched his lips as he leaned against the desk.
Charlotte drew breath to defend herself, but he did not permit it.
‘Since you’ve arrived, you have shut yourself away in the library, adopted questionable methods, taught Tom very little of substance, and now contrived to offend my staff—pray, why should I keep you on?’
Charlotte’s jaw tightened. His arrogance set her teeth on edge. She had endured quite enough.
Stand your ground.
Before prudence could intervene, the words escaped her.
‘Because no one else will come within ten feet of the little rascal, my lord. I fear you are stuck with me.’
A long silence stretched.
Then—to her astonishment—he laughed. A deep, unfeigned laugh that seemed to fill the room.
‘You have the advantage of me there,’ he admitted, regarding her as though she presented a most curious problem.
Charlotte gaped, startled by how much more handsome he appeared when he laughed.
He sobered. ‘Mrs Dent neglected to provide the full circumstances?’
‘Since he arrived at the mansion, he has suffered from nightmares—and the occasional... mishap,’ she clarified. ‘He wet the bed, and Mrs Dent was scolding the poor boy rather harshly. He was frightened. I... reacted. I confess I may have lost my temper a little.’
He continued to regard Charlotte as though seeing her for the first time, then nodded slowly. ‘Thank you for your efforts, Miss Lucas. You won’t be dismissed today. You may go.’
Charlotte curtseyed, too astonished to speak.
The words lingered within her—unexpectedly warm.
She walked out of the study with renewed determination. Tom’s reading showed genuine improvement, however slight—even if the haughty lordship had yet to observe it.
As she looked up, she saw the boy’s solemn face peeping through the banisters at the top of the stairs.
And for the first time since arriving, Charlotte felt as though she had truly achieved something.
She had gained Tom’s trust.