Manor of Secrets (10 page)

A knot, Janie could do. She’d done it in her own hair — and her mother’s — hundreds of times. She felt her shoulders relax a little. A few more strokes of the hairbrush and a quick twist of the slippery locks.

Miss Caldwell moved around the bed and over toward Charlotte’s desk. Janie felt Charlotte stiffen.

“Really, Charlotte,” Miss Caldwell said. “All the truly fashionable ladies have their hair put up several times a day.” She stared hard at Janie in the mirror. “Even if they’re just going out into the garden.”

“You seemed in a rush,” Charlotte said, slipping a hairpin into Janie’s hand like a magician. “And I don’t mind. I don’t need to dress up for anyone today.”

“Oh, yes you do.” Miss Caldwell turned to see both of them staring at her in the mirror. “Lord Broadhurst is coming early, too. Didn’t your mother tell you?”

Charlotte shook her head wordlessly and Janie went to the wardrobe, hoping the blue hat would be inside.

“On top of the dresser, Janie,” Charlotte said quickly, sounding almost breathless. “What do you think, Fran? Mother says it’s the latest style.”

Charlotte helped Janie set the hat at the correct angle and then held it in place while Janie stuck in the hatpin.

“It’s a bit boring,” Miss Caldwell said with a critical tilt to her head and turned back to the desk. “What have you been writing, Charlotte? Love letters?”

“It’s rubbish.” Charlotte stood and swept all the papers into the wastebasket. “Mother wanted me to practice composing menus.”

“How jolly dull.”

“It’s why I’m so glad you’re here.” Charlotte turned Miss Caldwell away from the desk and squeezed her arm. Janie thought she heard false gaiety in her voice.

“Are you finished?” Miss Caldwell asked, staring again at Janie.

“Thank you, Janie,” Charlotte spoke up. No more gaiety. Just cold dismissal.

A spark of wrath fired in Janie’s chest until she saw the look of utter hopelessness on Charlotte’s face when she glanced once again at her desk. Whatever Charlotte had been writing, it wasn’t menus, and she didn’t want Miss Caldwell to see it.

“Would you like me to take that, Lady Charlotte?” Janie said, indicating the wastepaper basket.

“That won’t be necessary, Janie,” Charlotte said, and Miss Caldwell rolled her eyes.

“Sarah will be up soon to tidy your room and collect rubbish for the burner,” Janie said, hoping she made her point clear. “If I take it, I could tell her not to bother.”

Understanding dawned on Charlotte’s face, and for an instant, she looked like she might cry.

“That’s very kind, Janie,” she said, her voice almost a whisper.

“I’ll make sure it gets to the right place,” Janie said emphatically, ignoring Miss Caldwell’s suspicious gaze.

Janie picked up the basket, narrowly avoiding catching Miss Caldwell’s fingers in the wicker. The other girl snatched her hand back and frowned. Janie smiled politely and clasped the basket to her chest, then turned and exited the room.

When she turned down the hall, she nearly ran over Lady Beatrice.

“I’m so sorry,” Janie said, juggling the basket and trying to curtsey at the same time. “I didn’t see you there.”

Lady Beatrice looked her up and down appraisingly. Janie realized she was still wearing the gray cotton dress she wore downstairs. Housemaids at The Manor wore black, with white aprons. Her stomach turned.

“Is Lady Charlotte in her room?” Lady Beatrice asked.

“Yes.” Janie bobbed again for good measure. Deference surely counted for something with the rich. “Miss Caldwell is in there with her.”

“Oh.” Lady Beatrice held very still, looking at the closed door of Charlotte’s room. “I see.” And she turned away from the door to walk back down the hall to the grand staircase at the end.

Janie watched her for a moment. Lady Beatrice was a puzzling figure. She wore a tight-fitting basque jacket that flared into a peplum at the back. And her skirts were just a trifle too short. The combination — and the jade green color — was all very stylish, but at the same time … rebellious.

Before Janie could turn away, Lady Beatrice stopped and spun around.

“Thank you …” She paused as one does when waiting to discover someone’s name.

“Janie.”

“Janie …” Lady Beatrice waited. She wanted a last name, as well. How eccentric.

“Janie Seward.”

Lady Beatrice smiled, and it changed her face dramatically. She looked even younger. “Thank you, Janie,” she said, and walked back toward the stairs.

Janie found the seam of the servants’ door and closed it behind her.

The perfect place to hide the papers would be in the cookery book in the kitchen. Janie’s mother never opened it — she had all her recipes memorized.

Janie pulled the papers out of the basket. Nothing else lay at the bottom except a desiccated rose and a broken hairpin. Holding the papers in one hand and the basket in the other, she picked her way down the two flights of stairs. The stairwell was narrow with no rail, the risers steep and the runners barely wide enough for a foot. But she was used to running up and down them carrying all sorts of things — including the housemaids’ tea — so she wasn’t worried about missing a step.

Until she came to the last one and nearly nose-dived into the hall opposite the kitchen. The papers flew from her grasp and the basket twanged, its wicker snapping.

“Blast!” Janie said under her breath. “First the Caldwell girl and now this.” She just wasn’t cut out for espionage.

A scuffed set of shoes appeared in the doorway in front of her.

“I wondered where you’d gone off to.” Harry knelt down and started shuffling up the papers. “Are all of these going out into the burner?”

He lifted one and peered at it.

“No!” Janie cried, and then stopped herself.

“Writing, Janie?” Harry asked, lowering the page and squinting at her. “You’re writing?”

“I can, you know,” Janie snapped. Better he thought she wrote them than know the truth. If Charlotte was terrified to tell her best friend, Janie should surely keep it a secret from Harry.

“I wasn’t saying you’re ignorant.” Harry studied the top page.

Janie snatched it out of his hand. “It’s none of your business.”

Harry just looked at her. “No, I guess it’s not.”

Janie held out her hand for the rest of the papers, and Harry passed them to her silently. He picked up the wastebasket and turned it from side to side. “Where did you get this?”

“From Lady Charlotte. It’s broken.”

“I can see that.” Harry flicked one of the pieces of wicker so it vibrated under his finger and looked at her again. He almost smiled.

Janie felt guilty for lying to him. For being angry with him.

“Thanks,” she said, taking it from him.

He nodded his response and walked away.

Janie looked at the page he’d been reading. It was about a dashing Italian count. As far as Janie knew, Charlotte had never met an Italian count. Not even in London when they were there for the Coronation this summer. She hadn’t been presented to court yet, and only went to the opera with her mother and once to the Ballets Russes with Lord Andrew Broadhurst.

Janie smiled. Poor Lord Broadhurst. He wasn’t going to get very far with Charlotte.

Then Janie stopped smiling. She read along the page, to the description of the man’s face. His high cheekbones, his blue eyes — like sapphires. His dark hair, his tall stature.

It was a perfect description of Lawrence. Except for the mouth. Charlotte hadn’t gotten the mouth quite right.

Janie thought of the curve of Lawrence’s smile and wondered if she was jealous.

Neither one of them could have him. Charlotte couldn’t because her mother would have a conniption fit right in the
middle of the drawing room. And Janie because even a kiss could get her thrown out of The Manor altogether.

Guiltily, she turned to the next page. It was about the lady mistress of a great house in the country. A kind of a female Bluebeard, who took in helpless maidens and tormented them.

The next page began with a young girl throwing herself into a lake.

The last was about a rich girl with perfect blonde hair and a flair for finding trouble. And making it.

No wonder Charlotte didn’t want Miss Caldwell to see what she’d written. The Caldwell girl would probably go straight to Lady Diane. Janie wouldn’t put anything past her.

Janie took the cookery book down from the shelf, opened it to the page on custards, and carefully lined up Charlotte’s papers so they wouldn’t show.

She placed her thoughts of Lawrence and Lady Diane and Miss Caldwell into the book with Charlotte’s descriptions of them, and set the entire thing back on the shelf where it belonged.

W
asn’t that Jenny the kitchen maid?” Fran asked, her voice sounding very loud.

“Janie,” Charlotte said. She wondered what Janie would do with her pages. And how she would get them back. Her mother would be apoplectic if she found out Charlotte was writing stories. She equated women writing with Elinor Glyn, with her “shockingly vulgar” romance novels and her not-so-secret affair with Lord Curzon. She assumed every lady writer would end up the same way.

“What was she doing up here?” Fran stood and dropped a bouquet of gloves onto the floor.

Charlotte swooped down on the gloves to hide her panic, dislodging a lock of hair from beneath her hat. Which gave her an idea. And a perfect excuse.

“I’m training her,” she said, tucking the hair behind her ear and placing the gloves back in her cedar chest, firmly closing the lid. “To be a lady’s maid.”

“More like she’s training you,” Fran sniffed, and marched to the door.

“Maybe it isn’t such a bad thing to take a minute to see how the other half lives,” Charlotte retorted. She didn’t like the look on her friend’s face but she crashed on. “Maybe we’ll learn to call them by their proper names.”

“The other half doesn’t matter, Charlotte,” Fran said. She cocked her head to one side. “I thought you’d realized that.”

Fran opened the door, as Charlotte started to protest. But then Fran stepped back into the room and pushed the door closed behind her, leaning back against it, her eyes wide and alight with mischief.

“Your aunt,” Fran whispered. “She’s out in the hall.”

“What’s she doing?” Charlotte asked.

Fran opened the door a crack and peered around it. “Heading for the stairs.”

Charlotte strode to the door and reached to pull it open wider, but Fran smacked it shut and turned around.

“I don’t want to talk to her. She’s odd,” Fran said, shrugging and blowing her hair out of her face.

Charlotte bristled. “How do you know? She only arrived yesterday.”

“I met her downstairs,” Fran said, the words spilling like scattering beads. “She was asking all kinds of questions. About you. About your
cook
. She’s nosy.”

“Everyone’s nosy, Fran, or hadn’t you noticed? Gossip is the life’s blood of the aristocracy. Without it, the women would have nothing to do.”

Fran looked surprised and then laughed. She looped her arm through Charlotte’s. “Still, I didn’t like that she was asking about you.”

“What did you say?”

“That you have never done anything remotely interesting in your life and probably never would.”

Charlotte felt like she’d been slapped.

“Why did you say that?”

“To put her off the scent, of course,” Fran said reassuringly, though not entirely believably.

When Charlotte reached for the door again, Fran stepped aside, but the hall was empty. Together, the girls walked the length of it, past the Van Dyck. Charlotte remembered Janie’s awe, looking at Charles and Henrietta on the wall. Lady Diane loved to remind any and all guests of the Edmonds’ family connections to the throne. Extremely distant and
tenuous connections. And Charles I was the highlight — which Charlotte herself would care to advertise. The only monarch to be publicly executed by his people? Not something to be proud of.

She suspected it was a copy, but she liked the sentiment. Charles staring lovingly at Henrietta Maria, reaching for her hand, her eyes coyly on the painter.

Charlotte thought about outward appearances. Like the peacock-blue day dress she wore today, with its handmade lace and superior tailoring. Chosen by her mother. Like Charlotte herself, gliding down the stairs arm-in-arm with her best friend, looking the very picture of contentment. The girl of The Manor, who had never done anything interesting and probably never would.