CHAPTER ONE

Northumberland County is the northernmost of England's ceremonial counties with weather to match. Although I am an English native, I have lived in the United States since I was eleven years old, with the exception of brief tenures as a governess for two English families and one American expatriate family in Switzerland.

So even though I dress warmly with a coat and scarf, I am not prepared for the blast of icy wind that pierces right through my shawl as though it wasn't even there. I shiver, and the cab driver smiles at me with crooked teeth and opines, "You'll get used to it. Cold enough to freeze the fires of hell and leave enough for the icebox, but it's a beautiful place in spite of that."

I look around at the pale grass to my left and the rocky cliffs to my right. The sky is a blue pale enough that it could properly be called gray, and I don’t see a single tree in sight. I suppose it does have an austere beauty, and for politeness’ sake, I choose to focus on that. “It is striking.”

The cab driver nods, also for politeness’ sake, and offers to carry my bags up the porch steps. I am grateful for this because there are two dozen steps, all of stone and all large enough to force me to place my feet carefully as I climb.

Blackwood Manor is as beautiful and as austere as the landscape. The manor was constructed over the bones of a Medieval castle that once belonged to a baron who I'm told was famous for being the last feudal Lord to surrender to the Normans. The walls are of grey stone, and turrets and battlements ring the building. The windows are paned with glass, and there are security cameras present every five yards or so, but otherwise, there's little to suggest that this building has aged at all in the thousand years since it was constructed. I wonder if the Blackwoods will be as imposing or as timeless.

The cabbie sets my bags down with an appreciative sigh. He tips his hat to me and says, “Pardon me if I leave ma’am. The earl don’t like strangers waitin’ on his porch.”

He moves down the steps to his car, leaving me to wonder what sort of man this Earl was.

I have entered into the service of Lord Edmund Blackwood, the twenty-first Earl Blackwood. I will be caring for the Lord’s nephew, Oliver. This is not my first time working for a wealthy client. In fact, all of my clients have ranged from well-off to unfathomably rich. However, this is my first time working for an actual member of the peerage. I’m interested to see what sort of personality Lord Edmund has.

The door opens before I can knock, and a rotund, rosy-cheeked woman in her mid-forties grins and exclaims, “Well, you must be Mary Wilcox.”

I bow slightly. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Oh pish posh with the ma’am,” she replies. “I’m not Miss Cordelia. My name is Theresa Pemberton, and I’m the housekeeper. It’s pleased to meet you.”

She sticks out her hand, and when I take it, she shakes vigorously. I note, rather uncomfortably, that her hands are very strong.

“Come on in,” she says. “I’ll show you around.”

She lifts my bags with considerably less effort than the cab driver did and carries them into the house. She sets them in the foyer and says, “We’ll carried those up later. You’ll be wanting the lay of the place, I imagine.”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Right then. Well, this is the foyer. It opens up right here into the parlor.”

I follow her into a large, high-ceilinged room with several couches and easy chairs arranged in three different circles. The furniture is of exquisite quality, of course, brown leather oiled and polished to a gleaming shine. The furniture and the rugs on which they sit are tastefully arranged to maximize the amount of free space while still giving a sense of intimacy among those who sit here. There is no television in this room, as is common in English households, especially wealthy estates. The parlor is a room for socializing.

It would be nearly perfect if it weren’t for the bare stone walls. Not bare, I suppose. Artwork hangs where artwork should hang, and the coat of arms of House Blackwood is proudly displayed above the massive fireplace, as it should be.

But the dark, cold weight of that stone casts a pallor over everything. Or perhaps it’s more correct to say that the cold darkness seeps through the brightness that the décor seeks to provide. It’s as though someone attempted to paint over a crack in the sidewalk but did so poorly, leaving the crack still visible underneath.

“In here we have the kitchen.”

I realize I’ve allowed Theresa to leave me behind, so I hurry to catch up. The kitchen is a refreshing change, modern and furnished with marble tiles and stainless-steel countertops. Like the parlor, it is huge, but unlike the parlor, the stainless-steel covers the stone, effectively muting the cold of the house’s ancient design.

There are two dining rooms, a grand one with sconces for torch lights and a great crystal chandelier over a table that could comfortably sit twenty, and a smaller one with seating for six. Both rooms are sparsely decorated but well lit, and the dark mahogany of the furniture does little to warm the coldness of the stone walls but at least doesn’t paint a false veneer over it.

The school room is a small study complete with a bookshelf, a globe and a charming little maple desk. “This is for the young master, I assume?” I ask Theresa.

She smiles sadly. "Ah, yes. Little Oliver. Poor lad."

I raise an eyebrow. “Why is that?”

She sighs. “He’s a sickly child, he is. Has a cough that just won’t go away. Doctors aren’t sure if it’s asthma or emphysema or if his poor lungs didn’t form right.”

“Oh, I wasn’t aware. How awful.”

"Truly, it is. His mother was sweet as honey but as delicate as a flower. She did her best, the poor dear, but I don't think she carried him well. When a child comes out sickly like that, you can bet it starts in the womb. Not that I blame her. She did her best, the poor dear."

I am a little disquieted by this somewhat circular speech. I am aware that I am caring for Oliver Blackwood, Lord Edmund’s nephew. I am also aware that his sister, Oliver’s mother, disappeared years ago. Still, hearing this suspicious assertion that somehow Oliver’s condition is the fault of his mother sits ill with me.

I don’t think Theresa means ill by it, though. Gossip is, unfortunately the favorite pastime of the English servant. It’s something I’ve encountered before and something I am sure I’ll endure at every one of my posts.

Not that I can claim I’m immune to gossip. Sean often teases me by saying that my penchant for sleuthing is nothing more than an “unusually sizable example of the British woman’s gossip gland.”

Still, I do try not to speak ill of the dead. Heaven knows I’ve suffered enough from ghosts without provoking them.

Theresa leads me upstairs after that. “I’ll show you the garden tomorrow when the sun’s out and it’s not so bitterly cold. I tell you, Mary, I do love Northumberland, but there are days I wouldn’t mind if that climate change everyone talks about wanted to warm us up a few notches.”

We reach the top of the stairs, and I am somewhat disheartened to see that the second floor carries even less to distract from the austerity of the castle. Suits of armor stand halfway in between six doors on the left side of the hallway and six on the right.

"These are the servants' quarters," Theresa informs me. "Mine is the last one on the right. Yours is directly across from me. Oliver is in the one next to yours so you can be close if he needs anything. The others are occupied by the other maids. You'll meet them soon enough. Lord Edmund's driver has a room in the garage, and he never hired a new gardener to replace Mr. Garland when he died. He hires a landscaping company now."

She says that last sentence with a peculiar streak of venom. So many household servants hold contractors in fierce contempt. Perhaps they feel their jobs are threatened, or perhaps it's the old English dislike of anything different.

“There’s lots more to see,” Theresa says, “but most of it isn’t business for us servants. Well, mine, I suppose, since I’m the housekeeper, but even I can only enter certain rooms if I’m instructed. Lord Edmund is very particular about his privacy. Come, let’s go fetch your luggage.”

As I follow her downstairs, I ask, “How long have you been working for Lord Edmund?”

“Oh, let’s see. It’s been… fifteen years now.”

My eyes widen in surprise. I don’t voice the thought, but I was expecting the number to be higher. I guessed Theresa’s age to be around forty-five. Most household servants enter service when they’re teenagers. Many are still born into it. In this modern age, some relics of our past still endure. I suppose, like this castle, we simply paint over it and hope the darkness doesn’t bleed through.

Theresa grabs my bags with the same effortless strength she shows earlier and tsks away my offer to help. “If I can’t lift a pair of suitcases up a flight of stairs, I’ve got no business being housekeeper to His Lordship.”

I’m not sure I follow the logic, but I’m quite sure I’d like to remain on Theresa’s good side. My first impression of her is that of a very strong-willed woman who takes great pride in her household and in herself. If she likes you, she will be a stalwart friend. If she doesn’t, she will be a lifelong enemy. I am finished making enemies.

With the luggage placed in my room, Theresa smiles in satisfaction and says, “There you are. You’ll be wanting to rest after your journey. Breakfast is at seven in the morning, and His Lordship has instructed you to me to invite you so you can meet him, the Lady Cordelia and Master Oliver. Will you need a wake-up call?”

“No, thank you. I am up by six-thirty every morning, and I don’t need long to shower and dress.”

“Very good then.” She sticks out her hand. “Miss Mary, it was a pleasure to meet you. I think you and I will get on famously.”

I smile and take her hand, once more marveling at its strength. “I feel that way too, Theresa.”

She leaves, and I take a moment to look around my room. It is small, but not cramped. The bed is a full-size bed, smaller than I’m used to but plush and made with a soft down comforter and memory foam pillows. The pillows and the flatscreen TV on the dresser are the odd touches of modernity in a room that is otherwise as austere and ancient as the rest of the castle.

I do not consider myself a superstitious woman, but I have been plagued with nightmares in the past, and I don’t wish to be plagued tonight. So I leave the desk lamp that sits on the room’s small table on as a nightlight and change for bed.

I text Sean good night before I sleep. Though I suppose for him, it’s still rather early. He replies with an image of my own bedroom at the house in Boston. He’s dusted it and cleaned the furniture. The bedding is gone, presumably to be washed or discarded and replaced. It looks empty and lifeless.

I thank him anyway and then set my alarm and close my eyes firmly. I have fought quite hard to move past my old fears, and I am determined that no castle, no matter how old or forbidding, shall overcome that determination.

Still, the cold creeps in, just touching me as I pull the comforter over my shoulders. It’s not threatening me, not yet.

But it’s not letting me forget that it’s there, either.