Chapter 14

14

A s they crunched along the final hundred yards of the driveway, Ellen saw a row of neatly dressed maids wearing black dresses and stark white aprons scurry out the front doors and line up beside men in black pants, white shirts, and scarlet waistcoats. Bringing up the rear was a plumpish woman wearing a blue dress with a white cardigan overtop.

"Speaking of things better relegated to the past, there she is," Wormsley said on a sigh. "The indominable Mrs. Winklebottom herding her charges out for display. Do not, I say do not be misled by her cherubic cheeks and plump bosoms. The woman can slug like a boxer and her mood can turn on a ha'penny if you say something that disagrees with her opinion."

On first impression the housekeeper did resemble a kindly old grandmother with apple-pink cheeks and gray hair pulled back into a neat bun. She was at least a foot shorter than the next tallest maid and probably fifty pounds heavier. Around her waist hung a belt with what looked like a hundred keys dangling from the end .

When Wormsley and Ellen were within twenty paces of the entrance, Mrs. Winklebottom nodded to the nearest maid, who then started the others clapping lightly. The applause was brief and dignified, after which they all clasped their hands behind their backs and stood straight as ramrods.

"Mrs. Winklebottom. How lovely to see you."

"Mr. Wormsley. How distressing to hear that you have forgotten how to use this newfangled invention called a telephone?"

"Dearest Abigail, I knew it would not trouble you in the least if we arrived early; your efficiency is as legendary as your ability to deal calmly with any manner of inconvenience. Indeed, I have been boasting to Miss Bowe throughout the entire journey from London that she should count herself the luckiest woman in England to have you in her employ despite the hundreds who have tried to lure you away."

The housekeeper looked like she wanted to box his ears, but she dismissed him with a tiny pffft through her front teeth before turning her attention to Ellen. No doubt the keen hazel eyes had taken a good long look at the new mistress as she came up the driveway and by the slightly arched eyebrow and pinched lips, Ellen assumed her pants and casual sweater did not meet the housekeeper's standards for an heiress's initial visit to Mercy Keep.

The assumption was proved wrong. It was her face, her hair, her eyes that caused the housekeepers eyebrows to arch. "What a remarkable resemblance. She looks just like—"

Wormsley cleared his throat and made the introduction. "Miss Ellen Bowe, may I present Mrs. Abigail Winklebottom. "

The housekeeper nodded. "Wormsley warned me you bore a striking resemblance to your grandmother, Miss Bowe, but he did not say you were almost the spit image."

Ellen smiled nervously. "He didn't tell me either."

"That does not surprise me in the least". The housekeeper puffed out her bosoms and glared at the solicitor. "I pray God in heaven that wretched harridan from your office has not accompanied you."

"Veronica?" Wormsley grinned. "Why of course she has. How could I leave her behind when I know how famously the two of you get along, what?"

The softest titter of laughter travelled along the line of servants, silenced the instant Mrs. Winklebottom turned and gave them The Eye.

"At any rate," Ellen held out her hand. "I am very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Winklebottom, and in his defense, Mr. Wormsley really has been singing your praises."

The housekeeper took her hand in a dry, no-nonsense grip and acknowledged the compliment with a small nod.

"Did you happen to see the professor?" she asked Wormsley. "He was about to go riding so I sent him down to the gate to watch for you."

"Indeed. He met us and took charge of the car and baggage."

"Excellent." Mrs. Winklebottom turned and raised her hand slightly and one by one the maids and manservants filed past, offering a nod and a smile as they were introduced. Twelve in all, none of whose names or positions Ellen remembered the instant after they walked past.

"Shall we go inside? Since we were not advised what time you might arrive, we have prepared a light meal if that is convenient? "

Ellen barely started to reply in the affirmative before the housekeeper turned and led the way through tall oak doors to the foyer.

And what a foyer it was! The domed ceiling was at least thirty feet high with the biggest crystal chandelier hanging overhead that Ellen had ever seen. The floor was black and white marble squares laid out in a checkerboard pattern thirty feet across and fifty feet wide. At the far end was a grand staircase that swept up to the second floor, splitting at the top in twin elegant curves to give access to both wings of the house.

The doors that led off the foyer, the moldings, and embellishments were all darkly stained wood as was the panelling on the walls. The dome was plaster, painted like an airy, cloudy sky. There were half a dozen velvet chairs gilded with gold placed against the walls alongside delicate tables and crystal lamps. Everything was polished and gleaming; the air was scented lightly by the enormous bouquet of flowers that sat on a marble table positioned beneath the chandelier.

"No doubt your journey has been incredibly exhausting, considering the company you had to endure, and I'm sure you would like to refresh yourself. If you follow me, Miss Bowe, I will show you the way to your rooms. We have put you in the burgundy suite for the moment, but of course you may choose quarters more to your taste after you have a chance to acquaint yourself with the various apartments. At your convenience I would be happy to show you through the house, but since it is a rather large undertaking, it would perhaps be best to wait until morning?"

"That will be fine, Mrs.… may I call you Abigail?"

"You may call me anything you like, Miss Bowe."

"And will you please call me Ellen? "

She made the pffft sound through her teeth again, but nodded. "As you wish, Miss Ellen."

Wormsley touched Ellen's arm and shook his head slightly to forestall any attempt to amend the address further. "I shall assume I am in my usual quarters in the farthest corner of the longest hallway?"

The housekeeper glared before she turned and started walking toward the staircase. "Just as I shall assume you can find your own way there."

"I will simply follow the path scorched by your breath," he murmured.

"I heard that, Wormsley. Just as I can hear the braying of your Veronica vibrating off the walls."

Wormsley sighed. "You've put the snakes in her in the room again, haven't you?"

The housekeeper looked back with a smirk. "Next time you should call ahead and I will have ample warning to remove them."

The burgundy room was exactly that. Wine-colored brocade drapes hung at the windows. The walls were clad in embroidered fabric above the elaborate wainscoting. Below, the wood panels were curved to resemble sheets of linen and painted a delicate cream. The bedding, chair coverings, and antique rugs were in varying shades of dark red, surprisingly tasteful where a less discerning eye might have made the room seem more like a bordello than a place for sleeping. The ceiling had plaster quatrefoil designs above a four-poster bed that was a comfortable queen size. It sat on a raised platform with a Venetian canopy overhead.

Ellen watched Mrs. Winklebottom fuss with the curtains and brush a speck of dust off a table .

"Mr. Wormsley said something about snakes? I'm almost afraid to ask."

Abigail tucked a stray gray hair behind her ear and pursed her lips to conceal a smile. "Old houses like these, they do have the odd mouse or two. But the snakes Wormsley referred to are a pair of bedside lamps acquired in Egypt by Master Henry's father. The stems of the lamps are carved to resemble cobras and look quite realistic. The silly woman screams every time she sees them."

Abigail pointed to the large marble fireplace that occupied half of one wall. "We don't usually light fires until September end, but if you get cold at night, lift the telephone and dial 0, or, if you're not in a hurry just use the bell-pull." She indicated a braided gold rope hanging down the wall. "Give it a good tug and one of the girls will come straight up. Three centuries ago no one had a notion of central heat or air conditioning, and no one in recent years has been willing to tear up the floors or walls to put the necessary piping in, so there you have it. We are lucky to have electric lights, and those were only installed during the Great War."

She led the way into the attached bathroom and dressing room, both stark white. Neither was quite as large as the entire suite at the Savoy, but it would be a close call. Ellen's suitcase and weekender were already there, looking as small and out of place as she felt in the opulent surroundings.

"I have assigned Miriam to be your personal maid. She is young and Irish, but she tries hard and does not eat garlic. She will unpack for you, press your clothes if they need it, draw you a bath. The pipes in the shower rattle quite violently," she added, casting a disdainful glance at the tiled alcove. "Your aunt Rachel always favored a bathtub, so the rattle was never fixed."

Ellen was startled. "This was my aunt's room?"

"Your uncle's room is larger but it is quite masculine, and I thought it might be too intimidating for a young lady. But of course it can always be redecorated to suit your tastes."

"Is it nearby? May I see it?"

"Is this room not satisfactory?"

"It's perfectly satisfactory. I was just curious to see my uncle's room, if I may."

Abigail pondered the request a moment then used one of her jingling bunch of keys to unlock an adjoining door that opened to an identical bathroom and beyond it, a separate large dressing room comprised of dark wood shelves, cupboards, and banks of drawers. There were racks of men's clothing stretching along both walls, a tall case full of hats, another of shoes that were all sturdy brown or black Oxfords.

"We were told not to touch anything until the new owner was here to decide what to keep and what to give away." Abigail sighed a little as she recognized some of the garments. "No doubt the Reverend Mr. Podd will be banging on the door as soon as he hears of your arrival, soliciting most of these things for his charity bazaar."

Ellen followed the housekeeper through another door and found herself in a huge bedroom decorated in sombre shades of dark hunter green.

The drapes were closed and the furniture was covered in ghostly white sheets but despite the gloom, she could see that it certainly did cater to a man's tastes. Everything was dark and solid, the cabinets chunky and masculine with not a speck of flocking or an inch of lace anywhere. It smelled faintly of liniment and leather and male sweat as if someone had just come in from riding and removed the tall boots that stood at the foot of the bed.

"Mr. Wormsley said my uncle died of a heart attack?"

"Broken heart, mores the like. Never got over his wife's death. Last few years, he spent so much time over in the ruins of the Keep, we kept expecting to find he had followed her off the parapet and broken on the rocks below."

"Is that how she died?"

"Aye. Miss Rachel threw herself off the roof. That useless blowhard of a Worm didn't tell you that either?"

"He didn't really tell me anything about my aunt. And not much about my uncle either, for that matter. Until a few weeks ago I wasn't even aware I had any family this side of the world."

"There is no doubt about that, Miss Bowe. You look just like your grandmother, Gweneth. Here, you can see for yourself."

Abigail went to the nearest window and pulled back one panel of drapery. The light that streamed in was weakened by the hour of the day and swirling with particles of disturbed dust, but it was bright enough for Ellen to follow the tilt of the housekeeper's chin.

Surrounding the fireplace were several large family portraits, most of a beautiful young woman with dark hair and a vibrant smile who Ellen supposed was her aunt, Rachel. Hanging above the mantel, however, was a larger painting in an ornate gilded frame, done by such an expert hand, it might have been mistaken for another photograph.

Even more startling, it might have been mistaken for a portrait of Ellen. The features were almost identical. The hair was a similar white gold, framing the woman's face in a cascade of delicate curls, and the eyes… they were the same crystalline blue as Ellen's.

It was an uncanny resemblance, like looking into a mirror and seeing a reflection of herself. Now she understood why Wormsley had looked like he'd seen a ghost that first time they had met in his office, and why Benjamin Chase and Abigail had both stared.

It was all too much to absorb: the vastness of the property, the manor, and now a portrait proving she had a family and a family history she had known nothing about.

"Did my uncle know about me?"

Mrs. Winklebottom's bosoms swelled slightly and she pursed her lips so tightly her cheeks were sucked in. "No."

"Then how—?"

"Your father sent me the occasional letter, every year or two to keep in touch, to let me know he was still alive. We both thought it best not to tell Master Henry."

Ellen shook her head. "Why not?"

"Every family has its secrets and every family has reasons for keeping them," was all she said by way of an answer.

"Ethan said you were the one who told him about me."

"Aye, that I did when the fool couldn't find you by himself. Didn't want to see the family estates being sold off to some damned stranger. Now you come along, Miss. The air in here is stale and dusty. No one has been in to clean since your uncle passed and it needs a thorough going over before anyone comes in again."

She drew the drapery shut, throwing the room back into gloom and darkness. The face looking serenely down from the portrait was muted once more, all except the eyes which seemed to follow Ellen as she retraced her steps through to the dressing room .

Back in the burgundy room, Abigail was all business again.

"Mind the time now, it is—" she consulted a small nurse's watch pinned to the front of her dress. "It is quarter of six. Dinner is served at precisely eight o'clock during the week. When you are rested and ready, the dining hall is the second door on the right at the bottom of the stairs."

She bustled her way to the door but halted before leaving. Seeing the conflicted look on Ellen's face, her stern expression mellowed somewhat. "Wormsley is an old crock of shit and balmy as hell—has to be to put up with that bat, Veronica, for so many years—but he is as honest as the day is long. Heed his advice. He will do right by you. And if you tell him I said that, I will deny it until my face turns blue. I have been the Dragon to his Worm far too long for either of us to change now."

"I won't breathe a word," Ellen promised. "And thank you."

"Don't thank me yet, dear. Just keep your wits about you. There is more to this house than ordinary folk might think."