CHAPTER TWO

The nightlight is successful. I spend the night free of nightmares and awake well-rested five minutes before my alarm goes off.

The castle is far less intimidating in daylight. The sun rises early this time of year in Northumberland, and even through the deeply recessed castle windows, enough light comes through to make the gray of the walls and floor far less threatening than in twilight. A little drab, I suppose, but not so cold and dark.

I save all five of those minutes and arrive downstairs at five minutes to seven dressed in a flattering but sensible outfit consisting of a low-hemmed skirt over black Oxfords, a long-sleeved white button-down blouse and a gray cardigan with a single clasp below the neck. Theresa is dressed similarly, elegant but not so fine as to be accused of putting on airs, a deadly sin among the English.

“They’ll be late,” she informs me when I greet her. “They always are. You know how lords are.”

The closest person to a lord I’ve worked for in the past was Sebastian Carlton, a now-disgraced telecommunications billionaire. I had a large part to do with his disgrace, as it was I who exposed the murder his daughter committed and caught him plotting to cover it up. He wasn’t a good person by any means, but he was always punctual.

Then again, he wasn’t a lord.

The Blackwoods arrive ten minutes later, so they're not exceedingly late. No butler announces their arrival, though, which I find somewhat surprising considering the status Lord Edmund holds. Instead, the Lord and Lady enter the room without introduction, leading a small boy in between them.

Lord Edmund stops ten feet away and looks imperiously at us. He is of average height and somewhat portly in build, although not excessively overweight. His hair is gray, and his eyes are frost blue. He is not difficult to look at, but perhaps not the image most think of when they call to mind the image of an English nobleman.

Lady Cordelia smiles, and for a moment, I am unsure who she is. She is far younger than Lord Edmund, not even thirty. That can’t possibly be the Lady Cordelia. Perhaps Lord Edmund has a daughter he hasn’t mentioned.

I am not a judgmental person, despite all appearances to the contrary. I keep an open mind about love and relationships, and in general, I feel that people are better off not concerning themselves with the affairs of others. But like many people, I can’t help but wonder when I see a wealthy man wedded to a woman young enough to be his child. Were Cordelia ten or even twenty years younger than Lord Edmund, I might excuse it, but she must be nearly thirty years his junior.

It's not your business, Mary, I remind myself. You’re done solving mysteries.

“Good morning, your Lordship,” Theresa says, bowing low. “This is Miss Mary Wilcox. She arrived late last night. I let her in and decided it was best not to wake you, sir.”

Lord Edmund nods slowly. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Wilcox. I am Lord Edmund Blackwood. You may address me as your Lordship, Lord Blackwood, or sir.”

His voice is resonant and powerful. I can see where he gets his reputation as an orator in the House of Lords. I bow and say, “Thank you for having me, your Lordship.”

He nods again, still slowly. I must say, it’s a bit ridiculous how intentionally regal he makes everything he says and does. Really, it is the twenty-first century.

He gestures to Lady Cordelia. “This is my wife, the Lady Cordelia.”

Lady Cordelia smiles again and curtseys. “It’s wonderful to meet you, Mary. We’re so glad to have you.”

She truly is beautiful. She has flowing dark brown hair and fair skin. Her eyes are the color of honey, and her full lips and soft but noble features accentuate the radiance of her smile. Her figure is delicate and statuesque, like a work of art. I can see why Lord Edmund is attracted to her. I only hope his love is the sort that brightens the flame in the heart of such a beauty and not the sort that extinguishes it.

“And this is my nephew, Master Oliver.”

Oliver opens his mouth to greet me, but before he can get a word out, a horrible coughing fit overtakes him. He covers his mouth and tries to control it, but his little body shakes with the force of each whooping exhalation. His face reddens, and for a terrifying moment, his lips seem to turn blue. But he recovers, and with an apologetic smile, he says, “It’s nice to meet you, Miss Mary.”

“Oliver is often unwell,” Lord Blackwood offers by way of explanation or perhaps apology. “He should stay indoors to avoid exacerbating his condition.”

It is my experience that staying indoors all day is the worst possible thing someone with trouble breathing can do for their health, but now is not the time to argue with His Lordship. So, I only incline my head and say, "I'm pleased to meet you, Oliver."

“Master Oliver, if you please,” Lord Edmund interjects.

My impression of His Lordship grows sourer by the minute. "Master Oliver," I correct. "I have a feeling you and I will get along famously."

He smiles at me, and I see in that smile an image of the sort of child Lord Blackwood might have been. He is the boy's uncle, not his father, but the family resemblance is clear. The same frost-blue eyes, the same slightly upturned nose and slightly outturned ears. He's a beautiful child, but he's so small for his age and clearly as sickly as Theresa warned me. My heart goes out to him, and I hope fervently that he will grow to be more like his aunt and less like his uncle.

This is an unfair judgment, of course. I have known all of them for barely a minute. I can’t possibly tell who they are based on this first impression, and I know well enough how wrong a first impression can be. Still, having met them, I can see that I will adore Oliver and find Cordelia charming. Lord Blackwood will be annoying at best and infuriating at worst.

Well, after all, he is a Lord. What do aristocrats exist for if not to remind us how much better they are than we?

Lord Edmund coughs and says, “We will take our breakfast now. Miss Wilcox, it is customary for the servants to eat in the kitchen, but this evening, you will join us for dinner.”

“I am honored, Lord Blackwood.”

His eyes narrow for a moment. I think he’s trying to determine if I’m teasing him. When he’s satisfied that I’m not trying to poke fun, he says, “Mrs. Pemberton, no cream if you will for the Lady Cordelia and please make her tea strong. I’m afraid the Lady hasn’t been sleeping well.”

Cordelia flushes and lowers her eyes. I feel offended on her behalf. Imagine airing your wife’s business in front of a stranger!

Theresa bows. “As you wish, my lord.”

Lord Edmund nods again, then leads his family from the room without a farewell to us. When the door closes, Theresa says drily, “One might suggest that the Lady Cordelia drinks weaker tea and not stronger if she’s having trouble sleeping.”

“I take it from your silence that airing such a suggestion to his Lordship would be unwise.”

She shrugs. “Not really unwise. Just useless. And don’t worry about him. He’s a windbag, but he’s harmless. All bark no bite.”

“That’s good to know.”

“I might as well introduce you to the others,” Theresa says. “They’ll be in the kitchen right now. Hopefully preparing His Lordship’s breakfast and not making too much of a mess.”

She leads me into the kitchen, where I find three young women whispering and giggling to each other as they make a full English breakfast for the diners. Lord Edmund, at least, doesn't seem to restrict his wife's diet.

The women fall silent when Mrs. Pemberton enters. They’re all young and pretty, though none of them are as statuesque as the Lady Cordelia. The youngest is in her early twenties, surely no older than twenty-five. She fails to maintain the serious expression the three women affect when we walk into the kitchen. She is punished for her failure by being the first of the maids introduced.

“The one with the silly smile is Sarah. Barely more than a girl and it shows on her face. And I’ll bet you forgot to put cream in the eggs.”

Sarah’s face goes white. She hurries to correct her mistake while the other two maids try to hide their mirth.

“The others are Franny—that’s the one with the lace in her bonnet—and Matilda. They’re just a hair smarter than the pigs we slaughtered to make that bacon.”

Franny and Matilda giggle, an odd reaction, but when I see the motherly smirk on Theresa’s face, I understand. As is the case with many senior servants, Theresa has taken on the role of guardian to these young women. Her scolding may sound harsh, but it comes from a place of love.

“All right then, you’ve had your laugh,” she says. “Now let’s get back to work. His Lordship prefers to breakfast in the morning. Oh! I’ve almost forgotten. Ladies, this is Mary Wilcox, the governess. She is here to care for Master Oliver. She is not here to listen to you three prattle on, so please, if you talk to her, talk like adults. No, that's too much, Sarah. Here, let me do it. You help the other two with the sausages before they burn themselves, smirking at each other."

I smile and watch Theresa help the three young women get breakfast in order. The house doesn’t seem quite so forbidding now.