Manor of Secrets (17 page)

“Only when you can’t move it anymore.”

“Won’t it all melt before pudding is served?”

“Probably.”

“Is that what has you crying?”

Janie sighed. “I don’t cry.”

“It’s true, Janie Seward. Not even when you broke your collarbone. There’s not much that can make you cry. Whatever’s got you this close must be pretty bad.”

Janie turned her head slightly, to see him out of her peripheral vision. To feel his breath on her cheek.

Harry stopped churning and stood up, pulling her up with him. He stood with one hand on each of her shoulders and waited until she looked up into his face.

Janie wasn’t sure how long they stood there. She felt the atmosphere shift around her. The heat of his hands on her arms. The intensity of his gaze.

Janie shook her head. This was
Harry
. And she was not some infatuated girl. Not like Charlotte chasing a footman. She moved away and busied herself with the ice-cream churn: unbuckling the hand crank, pulling the canister out of the bucket, and placing it on the cool stone floor. She pulled up the dasher from the center of the can and inspected it.

“My ma is going to work for Lady Beatrice,” she finally said.

As soon as she said it, Janie wished she hadn’t. Saying it out loud made it seem so real. A real coup for Lady Beatrice, getting a great cook and stealing her from her sister. A real loss for The Manor. For Janie.

“You’re leaving?”

Janie dipped a finger into the soft ice cream and put it in her mouth. Closed her eyes, the sweetness spreading over her tongue.

“I don’t think I’m invited.” Janie didn’t open her eyes, enjoying the anonymity of the cool darkness behind the lids. “And I don’t think I want to leave.”

“You always said you’d stay here forever, Janie, but being a lady’s maid would mean leaving. Going with Lady Charlotte. Or someone else. She’s not going to stay here forever.”

Janie put the lid back on the canister and finally looked at him. “I don’t really want to be a lady’s maid. But it was … fun. Pretending. Going upstairs. It’s so pretty, Harry. Those paintings on the walls and the carpets beneath your feet.”

“Even when they don’t belong to you?” Harry asked.

“You don’t have to own beauty to appreciate it.”

“Don’t you want more, Janie?” Harry asked. He sounded like he expected her to. “From your life? You’re so smart … you could be a writer or something.”

Janie almost laughed. Where on earth had Harry gotten that idea? But then she remembered. Harry had seen her with Charlotte’s papers. He was the only person who knew about them.

And
someone
told Mrs. Griffiths.

“Or is it something else?” Harry continued, his voice hoarse. “Or
someone …
you want to stay here for?”

Harry must have seen her
almost
kiss Lawrence. Harry,
who could move through the entire house without a sound because it was his job. Harry, who was …

Jealous?

“It was you,” Janie said.

A torrent of emotions crossed Harry’s face, so quickly Janie could only guess what was behind them. Fear. Confusion. Excitement. Relief.

Guilt.

The pain of his betrayal was so swift and so sharp that Janie almost cried out. He took a step toward her, and she thrust out her hands to force him back.

“Don’t talk to me about what I want, Harry Peasgood, because in the end you’re just like everyone else.
Stay in your place, Janie Seward, you don’t deserve to want anything else
.”

“Ah, Janie, please don’t be like that.” Harry stared at her. He looked confused.

Janie advanced on him, her anger rising, obliterating her grief. She approached him as she imagined a tiger would. Carefully. Menacingly.

“Don’t be like what, Harry?”

“Like this. Like you’re mad at me. I don’t understand what I said.”

“It’s what you said and what you
did.
”

“What do you mean?”

“You
know
I’d never do anything to jeopardize my position here, and yet you did it for me.”

Harry’s eyes grew round. “I don’t understand.”

“You do understand, Harry. You’re the only one who does. The only one who knows what this place means to me, and the only one who knows what I will lose if I’m sacked. Because I won’t just be losing a job, will I?”

“Janie —”

“So don’t worry, Harry. Point taken. I will not step another toe out of line, because I can’t afford to lose this place. Not now. Not ever.”

“I know all this, Janie!”

“Then why did you do it?” Janie cried. “Why? How could you?”

Real fear careened across his face. And real concern galloped after it. He reached for her, but she ducked away. But he caught her around the middle and wrapped his arms around her, his chest pressed tight to her back.

“What did I do, Janie?” he murmured in her ear. “I don’t know how to make it right.”

Janie stopped struggling and looked up at him over her shoulder. Remembering the night he watched the stars, and she had seen them reflected in his eyes.

“Why do I have to tell you?” she asked. It didn’t come out
as angrily as she intended. It came out soft and questioning. Pleading, almost.

“Because I want to help.” The tone of his voice and the way he looked directly into her eyes almost had her convinced. She wanted to believe him.

“Why?” she asked.

“Because I …” Harry never took his eyes off her face.

Out of the corner of her eye, Janie saw Mrs. Griffiths appear in the doorway, shock shadowing her features. Janie tried to pull away from Harry, but he held her too tightly.

“No,” Janie whispered, but the housekeeper cut across her.

“Mr. Foyle is asking about those eggs, Harry.”

Harry dropped his arms as if he held a living coal in them and stepped abruptly backward, knocking over the bucket of salty water.

“No!” Janie cried again.

She watched as Harry stumbled a second time, tipping over the ice-cream canister with its sticky, melting contents. Brushing the half dozen eggs he’d collected off the table and onto the floor. She watched as Mrs. Griffiths marched him out of the larder and up into the kitchen courtyard.

She watched as her entire world fell apart around her, knowing there was nothing she could do to keep it together.

C
harlotte stood at the top of the grand staircase in her first Worth gown. The silk dress was a deep, rich green. The hem was slightly raised in the front, showing a shimmery gold underdress, a hint of ankle, and her slippers dyed to match, with a bit of a train in the back.

The bodice of the gown was beaded in a geometrical pattern, jet and glass beads that sparkled when they caught the light. And a huge silk rose on the shoulder strap held the little chiffon demi-sleeves, the pale green silk almost like sea foam.

Normally, such a dress would be purchased for a girl’s first Season. She’d be presented at court and then attend countless balls in a series of equally stunning gowns, hoping
to attract a proposal. It was quite a coup to get an offer during the debut year.

Lady Diane had told Charlotte on their shopping trip in Paris that she hoped for a proposal before Charlotte was ever presented at court. She hinted that Charlotte shouldn’t expect many more of these gowns. At least not any purchased on the Edmonds’s account.

Charlotte knew that meant only one thing. That Lady Diane wanted her daughter out of The Manor and off her hands. And that this dress was intended to beguile Andrew Broadhurst. Tonight.

Charlotte imagined herself in the shimmering, sealike gown on the balcony of a hotel on the Côte d’Azur in France. Lawrence could be a painter — someone modern and passionate, like that Picasso. And Charlotte would write all day. Books about adventure and airplanes. Or maybe books about the English aristocracy. Making fun of their extravagances. Bridging the gap between the classes.

She would prove Janie wrong.

She laid a gloved hand on the gleaming stair rail. She knew it was dusted and polished daily while the family was at lunch or out riding. She rarely saw the maids who did it. Everything at The Manor ran with precision and grace. Invisibly. So she could appear at the top of the stairs — a perfect vision.

Charlotte glanced down and saw that the marble hall was empty. She was earlier even than Lady Diane, who usually waited for her dinner guests at the bottom of the staircase. Charlotte hesitated one more moment, and then decided to go back to her room and count to twenty before coming out again.

Charlotte turned and almost ran headlong into Andrew Broadhurst’s chest. With a little cry, she stepped backward. The heel of her shoe connected with nothing but air and she teetered over the precipice of the grand staircase — only the checkered marble at the bottom to stop her fall.

Andrew slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her upright. The lapels of his dinner jacket gleamed dully, his white tie just a tiny bit out of alignment. He smelled of sandalwood and spice.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, his voice rumbling against her. “Are you all right?”

Charlotte looked up into his eyes — darker than ever in the dim light of the staircase.

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, then remembered herself. “Thank you.”

Andrew turned, guiding her away from the stairs, and then let her go. Like a gentleman, he stepped back, leaving an appropriate amount of space between them.

“Were you going down?” he asked.

“No.” Charlotte couldn’t look him in the face. Couldn’t look into those eyes.

“Of course not. You were about to leave.” He stepped to the side to allow her to pass.

“No,” Charlotte said. “I mean, yes. I was going downstairs. I just … realized I was early. And thought I should wait.”

“Let’s wait together, shall we?”

Charlotte’s thoughts still churned with daydreams. Being a writer. Standing at the Côte d’Azur with a handsome man at her side.

“What are the other men doing?” she asked.

“Cocktails,” Andrew said. “Lord Buckden has become quite a connoisseur at his club, apparently.”

“And you’re not joining them?”

“Not when more stimulating company presents itself.”

Andrew grinned at her. He seemed so … charming.

“Besides,” he continued, leaning forward to murmur into her ear, his cinnamon-scented breath fluttering the hair at her temple, “the thought of trying to swallow something made of raw eggs, crushed ice, brandy, and milk is enough to make me swear off the stuff forever.”

Charlotte made an appropriately disgusted face and
finally looked into his eyes. They were a rich, chocolaty brown, but contained flickers of light like chips of gold. And again, she felt they shared a common joke at the expense of the rest of the aristocracy.

“Surely it would be an adventure,” she finally managed, and edged her words with a tease. “A new taste thrill.”

“I think I prefer to get my adventure elsewhere,” Andrew replied. “Travel. Making my own way. Running my own business.”

Oh, dear. Business sounded dreadfully dull. Charlotte tried hard not to yawn.

“Airplanes.”

“Flying?” she asked, her voice a squeak.

Andrew laughed. “It’s every bit as frightening as you think, but equally thrilling.”

Charlotte tried to imagine what it would be like to look down upon the trees and valleys around The Manor. She was astonished at how easy it was to imagine Andrew Broadhurst flying the plane.

“I’m shocked, Lord Broadhurst,” she said with a genuine smile.

“I’m afraid I want more out of life than just garden parties
and village fetes.”

“I do, as well,” Charlotte blurted in surprise. “I just feel like the world is changing, and I want to be there to see it. To be a part of it.”

Andrew cocked his head and looked at her, but was silent for so long, Charlotte began to feel she had shocked him. Offended him.

“And how do you want to do that?” he asked finally.

At first, she thought he might be mocking her. When she was little and expressed opinions, her brothers used to throw them back at her. Teasing and jibing until she cried.

Andrew looked like he really wanted to know the answer.

“I’d like to be a writer,” she said. And immediately regretted it. She’d never told anyone about her writing. Except Janie. Who was no longer her friend.

“A journalist?” Andrew asked.

Charlotte thought of Nellie Bly, who had pretended to be insane to expose the cruel treatment of madwomen in a New York asylum. And had later gone on to travel around the world in fewer than eighty days. She didn’t just write about adventure, she lived it. She didn’t just think about change, she created it.

It sounded terrifying.

She could let him think this of her. She imagined that she was plucky and audacious and worthy of admiration.
But Charlotte was surprised by how much she wanted him to know the truth.

“I write fiction,” she admitted. “Stories. Adventures.”

Andrew smiled amusedly. “About what?”

Charlotte frowned. “Are you patronizing me?”

Andrew became all seriousness. “Not at all, Lady Charlotte. It’s obviously something about which you feel passionate, and I respect that. In fact, I admire it very much. It’s something to which we should all aspire.”