Manor of Secrets (18 page)

“And what’s that?”

“Doing something we love.”

Warmth spread through her at how well he understood. Only to be replaced by coldness when she saw Fran approaching from the far end of the hall.

“What are you two waiting for?” Fran called. “Me?” She slipped a slim arm around Charlotte’s and whispered in her ear, “Has he proposed yet?”

More loudly, she added, “You shouldn’t have.”

“We didn’t,” Charlotte blurted, and Fran dropped her arm, glaring. Andrew coughed.

“Really, Charlotte,” Fran said. “It’s no wonder your mother wants to send you to finishing school.”

Charlotte steeled herself to make a response, but Andrew stepped between them.

“I must be the luckiest man in the world to escort two such fetching young ladies to dinner,” he said. His voice was different. Back to its upper-class, Eton-educated tones. Charlotte realized this switch expertly doused the animosity between the two girls.

“May I?” Andrew held out one arm to Fran and extended the other to Charlotte, who took it gratefully, and the three of them headed down the stairs.

“Looking forward to the servants’ ball?” Andrew asked.

“I’m sure Charlotte is,” Fran said.

Charlotte felt a flush of embarrassment, followed quickly by anger at Fran for being so casual with her secrets.

“Yes,” she stuttered.

“It must be such a treat for them,” Fran continued. “To be able to experience the way the other half lives.”

She sounded so condescending, Charlotte considered turning around and going back to bed. If this was how the rest of the guests would act, it would be a flaming embarrassment to be among them.

“I think it is more of a gift for the rest of us,” Andrew said. “To be able to spend an evening in the company of our fellow man.”

Fran laughed. “I think you have to sit by me again this
evening, Lord Broadhurst. I shall have need of your diverting remarks.”

The dinner seemed to go on forever. Course after course — twelve rather than five. Charlotte thought of poor Janie down in the kitchen. Mrs. Seward rushed off her feet. None of them would want to dance after all that. One would think they’d just want to go to bed.

And the one time she thought she might be interested in talking more with Andrew Broadhurst, he was placed farther down the table, diverting Fran. And Charlotte was stuck between her brother Stephen and Lord Buckden, who appeared to have fallen asleep over the cheese, which was a blessing. He only mumbled when he talked, with a tendency to spray.

Stephen just ignored her entirely.

But Lawrence didn’t. Though he moved with absolute decorum and served silently and efficiently, she felt his eyes on her. She imagined that he was as anxious for their dance together as she was. She tried to picture the hesitation waltz. Instead, she saw herself dancing with Andrew Broadhurst, and shook the thought away.

Aunt Beatrice was quiet throughout the meal, tucked between Charlotte’s father and Lord Ellis. She was the very
picture of “speak only when spoken to,” and therefore didn’t speak at all. She wore a soft gray dress, the black ribbons and beads soothing rather than fiery. It was like she didn’t want to be seen.

Charlotte wished she’d had a chance to talk to her aunt. Surely Aunt Beatrice would prefer to be in Italy or America or wherever she was going next. The Manor must be stifling. There was nothing for her here.

When dinner was over and the ladies moved to the sitting room for coffee, Fran swept up beside Charlotte and wrapped an arm around her waist.

“I saw you,” she whispered into Charlotte’s ear. Her hair tickled the same way it had when Andrew had spoken to her, but this felt more like an omen.

Charlotte tried to pull away, but Fran wouldn’t let her.

“Watching the footman all night, weren’t you? I wouldn’t let it go too far if I were you.”

“Well, you’re not me, are you?” Charlotte snapped.

“No.” Fran turned bitter eyes on her. “You’ve always been the good girl. You would never risk losing everything. Your family. Your reputation.”

“What about love?”

Fran navigated them around a spindly tea table and into the far corner of the room. “Is love really worth losing all of
this?” She waved her hand at the sitting room, The Manor, the yawning fireplace.

“None of this is mine,” Charlotte said. “I’m just a tenant.”

“You’re being purposefully obtuse. It’s the
idea
of it all I’m talking about. You think you want to give this up for a rented semidetached cottage in Surrey? For a man who stinks of coal soot? Mending your own clothes and — God forbid — cooking your own dinners? I can’t even make my own toast, Charlotte!”

“You sound like you’re proud of that.”

“I am! I’m rich and well-bred, and I can pay someone to make my toast and bring me tea. I wouldn’t give that up for anything.”

Charlotte didn’t know how to make toast, either. She could have tried to learn from Janie, but that didn’t mean she would have been any good at it.

“Personally,” Fran added, “I’m not giving up my silks and servants.”

“What about your dreams?”

“I’m not a dreamer, Charlotte. I’m a realist. And if you persist in being off in the clouds, you’re going to find that it’s raining in your reality.”

“What does that mean?” Charlotte didn’t think she could stand one more moment in Fran’s company.

“It means Andrew Broadhurst won’t be looking at you with those puppy-dog eyes for long,” Fran said with a tight smile. “Maybe someone else will snap him up.”

“Like you?” Charlotte hissed. “What about David?”

Not that Charlotte relished the idea of Fran marrying her brother. But the idea of Fran with Andrew somehow rankled Charlotte even more.

“Carrying on with this childish infatuation will not only bring you down, Charlotte, it will destroy your family.” Fran looked at her pointedly. “I don’t wish to marry into a family on the verge of scandal. And I doubt Lord Broadhurst will, either.”

Fran turned and swished away, the flare of her pink handkerchief hem rustling on the carpet.

“You can have him,” Charlotte muttered under her breath. But felt a little jolt of conscience, right beneath the growing lump of dread lodged against her breastbone.

When they reentered the marble hall, it had been transformed. Swags of greenery and flowers traveled down the grand staircase, and tall pillar candles lit the back corners. The front doors had been opened to the soft whisper of the fading daylight — stars just visible above the inky hedgerows and the yellow moon rising on the eastern horizon.

Lawrence stood just inside the door, almost silhouetted against the sky, watching the other servants arrive. They looked awkward in their Sunday best. Compared to the showy silks and glittering jewels of the guests, the maids’ bright cotton dresses looked drab. Even Mrs. Griffiths’s best black silk looked muted in comparison.

Tess, the head kitchen maid, had plaited her hair into an elaborate crown. Even Mollie the scullery girl had cleaned up a bit, and hid her chapped hands behind her back. Charlotte frowned when she didn’t see Janie.

Lord Edmonds stepped forward to address them.

“Welcome,” he said to the guests, then turned to the servants. “Welcome, all. This is a tradition we haven’t kept for a long time.” He paused, his eyes traveling to Lady Diane, then lighting briefly on Lady Beatrice. “But one we hope will carry happy relationships into the future.”

Charlotte sighed. Her father was so good at making speeches.

Just not very good at personal conversations.

Everyone arranged themselves — the guests on one side of the room, servants on the other, like opposing teams at a cricket match. Charlotte placed herself somewhere near the middle. She wasn’t quite ready to choose one side or the other.

“I wanted to thank you, Lady Charlotte,” Sarah said, sidling up to stand next to her.

“What for?”

“For the ball. We heard it was your doing.” Sarah leaned forward to whisper over Charlotte’s shoulder. “Occasionally, we have a little dance downstairs. The chauffeur plays the piano. And sometimes the gardener’s boy comes in with a fiddle.” She raised her eyebrows as if divulging a great secret.

“Do you?” Charlotte asked, remembering Sarah in the basement hall behind Mrs. Griffiths. “And who do you dance with?”

Sarah hesitated.

“Go on, Sarah.” Charlotte smiled encouragingly. “I won’t tell.”

“The new footman, my lady,” Sarah said. “Lawrence. He’s mighty handsome, that one.”

Charlotte’s throat squeezed shut. Of course Lawrence had danced with Sarah. Lawrence danced with everyone. He’d even said Janie promised him a dance.

Janie.

She was jealous. That’s why she’d said those horrid things to Charlotte. Because Charlotte had kissed Lawrence first.

Janie said Lawrence had almost kissed her, too. Charlotte swallowed.

“It’s the talk of the downstairs, my lady,” Sarah said.

For a moment, Charlotte wondered if Janie’s jealousy was the talk of the downstairs. Or, God forbid, her own indiscretions. Maybe Janie had told. Maybe everyone knew.

“What is?” she breathed.

“The ball,” Sarah said, her eyes meeting Charlotte’s.

Charlotte saw a spark in the maid’s expression.

“That and the kitchen maid,” Sarah said. Her voice was casual. Offhand. As if it were something Charlotte would know about already. As if it wasn’t worth mentioning.

“The kitchen maid?” Charlotte prompted.

“Janie,” Sarah said, her face impassive. Watching the musicians tune up.

“What about her?”

“Why, she’s been sacked, of course,” Sarah said. “Consorting with one of the men.”

Charlotte almost stopped breathing.

“Which one?”

Sarah leaned forward again, her eyes alight with gossip and mischief.

“The hall boy,” Sarah said, scandalized. “Harry Peasgood.”

Memories tumbled around in Charlotte’s mind. Harry daring Janie to eat the Indian chili. The way he watched Janie when he thought no one was looking.

Sarah must have taken Charlotte’s silence as enticement to elaborate. “Mrs. Griffiths found them in the larder,” the housemaid said. “In a frightful clinch. Mind you, that boy has been mooning after her for years, she was just too thick to see it.”

“Or didn’t want to,” Charlotte said quietly.

Janie wouldn’t risk her job. Not even for Harry.

But she had risked her job to help Charlotte. To keep her secrets.

The musicians started up a waltz and the hall resonated with the music. The room had originally been the Tudor-era great hall, and must have seen a great many dances. Charlotte couldn’t help but feel that this one was not going to go as she imagined.

She wondered if she should sneak downstairs and find Janie. If Janie hadn’t already left The Manor for good. She watched Lady Diane, whose face was a mask of disinterest. Almost boredom.

And Charlotte realized she didn’t need to find Janie.

She needed to talk to her mother.

While the guests and servants stood and stared at one another uncomfortably, Charlotte strode across the checkered floor and stopped in front of Lady Diane.

“Mother, I need to speak with you.”

Lady Diane narrowed her eyes. “Not now, Charlotte. We have guests.”

“We can speak about this privately,” Charlotte pursued, with more confidence in her voice than she felt. “Or we can speak about this here. But speak about it, I will.”

Lady Diane’s lips went white with anger.

“Very well, Charlotte, come into my sitting room.”

A surge of triumph pushed Charlotte forward. As she followed her mother, she pictured herself telling Lady Diane everything. Convincing her to give Janie another chance.

Changing the world.

Or at least the world of The Manor.

“I’ve been thinking, Mother.”

“About your lot in life?” Lady Diane asked. Haughty and disparaging.

“About Janie.”

“The kitchen maid? She is no longer employed here.”

“She —”

“She was found in a compromising position,” Lady Diane interrupted, and walked quickly to her little writing desk in the corner of the room. It was by the windows, but didn’t face them. Instead, it faced the great Tudor tapestry on the wall. As if Lady Diane wished only to see the world as others had
made it, not the world as it was. “And she was found in possession of these.”

She pulled a stack of papers from the drawer of the desk, turned, and held them up in one hand. Evidence. A flaming torch of condemnation.

Charlotte recognized them immediately.

“Those are mine,” she whispered. But not loud enough for her mother to hear.

“Mrs. Griffiths thought they were evidence that the kitchen maid was trying to better herself. And writing scandalous lies about the people of this household.” Lady Diane scanned one page after another.

Charlotte swallowed. Mrs. Griffiths thought they were Janie’s. But didn’t her mother recognize Charlotte’s handwriting?

“A young girl in love with an Italian count,” Lady Diane scoffed. “A count who looks remarkably like our second footman. And the lady of the house.” She paused and Charlotte saw pain in her expression. “Not a very flattering portrait.”