The carriage door opened. This time there was a footman to lower the steps and assist her to the gravel drive.
“Welcome to Morton Manor, miss,” he greeted her cordially. “Mrs. Gale will show you to the parlor where Lady Morton will receive you. I’ll see to your belongings.”
Mrs. Gale had to be the housekeeper. “Thank you,” Finley said. She turned toward the house. It was huge. Stately. Silas’s shop could fit dozens of times over into this grand estate—one of many the family probably owned.
Even if Lady Morton’s daughter turned out to be a cow, living in a house this fine was definitely a benefit.
Mayfair was like a different world from the bustling area around Silas’s shop. That was in Russell Square, where people lived, worked and shopped. Mayfair was where rich people idled through their days, entertained in the evening and let other people clean up after them.
Perhaps she had inherited some of her mother’s prejudice, but that didn’t make her opinion wrong.
Before she reached the top step leading up to the servants’ entrance, the door opened to reveal the kind face of a woman old enough to be Finley’s grandmother. She wore a black-and-white dress and a white cap that identified her as the housekeeper.
“Good morning, dear. I trust you had a comfortable journey?”
“Good morning,” Finley replied. “I did, yes. Are you Mrs. Gale?”
Apple cheeks lifted in a smile. “I am indeed. Come in, come in.”
Finley moved past her, into the foyer. It was small, but clean and smelled of freshly baked bread.
“Kitchen’s down below,” Mrs. Gale said, nodding at a partially opened door that led down a flight of stairs. Finley could hear the clang of pots and chattering voices.
“Smells wonderful,” she commented.
“You go down there when you’re settled in and Cook will give you bread and molasses. I declare it’s the best thing I’ve ever eaten. Now, follow me.”
Finley trailed after the portly woman. Along the way they ran into various other staff, who nodded and said hello. Mrs. Gale introduced her to all of them, and Finley tried to remember all their names.
“I’ll show you to your room, then take you to Lady Morton,” Mrs. Gale informed her, her sturdy form moving with surprising speed toward what had to be the servants’ staircase. It was fairly wide and well-worn, partially hidden not far from what Mrs. Gale told her was the door to the corridor that led to the laundry building.
“Her ladyship requested that you be given a room on the family floor.”
There was no censure in the older woman’s voice, but Finley was uncomfortable all the same. At her last job she’d slept on the top floor, in a room she shared with three of the other maids.
“Why?” she asked.
Mrs. Gale lifted her shoulders in a tiny shrug and smiled. “I suppose so you’ll be closer for Lady Phoebe. Lord and Lady Morton are good people, Miss Jayne. I’ve worked for this family for almost thirty years and I’ve never felt as though I had been treated ill.”
Too bad her mother wasn’t there to hear that, Finley mused. It might ease her misgivings. “I’m already a little overwhelmed by her ladyship’s kindness.”
“Rather sad, isn’t it? That we’re surprised to be treated well.”
“Yes,” Finley agreed. “I’m a little ashamed of myself for it.”
The housekeeper gave her a gentle smile and a pat on the arm as if to ease her mind. A few moments later, they reached a landing on the stairs and turned left, into a long, wide corridor with cream walls, delicate plaster scrolls and rich red carpet.
“Your room is here.” Mrs. Gale stopped in front of the first door on the right and turned the knob.
Finley walked in first. The room was large—larger than the room she shared with three other girls at the Gattersleigh residence. Decorated in shades of sage and cream, it was bright and airy and smelled of freshly cut grass. They must have aired it earlier, while the gardeners attended to the foliage below. She had a lovely view of the grounds from her window.
She removed her hat, checked her reflection in the mirror and smoothed her hands over her hair and skirt. She should have worn a proper gown instead of her more modern kit of stockings, boots, short ruffled skirt, blouse and leather corset. But there was neither time, nor the privacy to change. Mrs. Gale bustled about showing her the armoire, dressing table and adjoining bath.
“It’s been outfitted in the latest innovations,” the housekeeper told her. “The tub even has a burner to keep the water hot.”
And a fancy commode, too—one that flushed with water.
Two footmen arrived with her luggage as they exited once more.
“If you wish, I can have one of the maids see to your belongings,” Mrs. Gale offered.
“No. Thank you. I’ll see to my own unpacking. I’d feel strange letting someone else do it.”
For that comment she was rewarded with another smile. Back down the stairs they went, but instead of returning to the kitchen, they turned in the opposite direction.
The main part of the house was just as impressive as the outside, with cathedral ceilings, marble floors and classical statues. Finley paused for a moment to take it all in. She clenched her teeth to keep her jaw from dropping—wouldn’t do for her to show her awe. Standing around with one’s mouth open made one look like a lowbrow commoner, which she might very well be, but was determined not to look it.
Down another corridor. Mrs. Gale stopped and knocked on a partially open door, and when she was given permission from the lady within, she opened the door the rest of the way. “Miss Jayne has arrived, my lady.”
“Send her in.”
And then Finley was on her own, wishing she had the sturdy housekeeper to cling to. She crossed the threshold into a small, pretty blue parlor and found herself being stared at by three identically green eyes, and one stormy one.
“Miss Jayne,” Lady Morton greeted with a smile. “How lovely to see you again. Allow me to introduce my daughter, Phoebe.”
“Hello, Finley,” the girl said. She was about the same age as Finley. At the oldest she might be seventeen. She was about the same height, with a similar build, but her hair was auburn and her skin as pale as milk, with just a hint of pink along her cheeks. “How do you do?”
Finley was prevented from curtsying, as she had been brought up to do, by the girl offering her hand. Was she to be treated as an equal then? She closed her fingers around Phoebe’s and tried not to squeeze too hard. The girl’s grip was firm.
“I’m well, thank you. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Phoebe.”
“Just Phoebe,” she was told. “We’re to be friends after all. Please, sit. Tea?”
“Yes, please.” Finley sat on the edge of the sofa beside Phoebe and watched as the girl fixed a cup for her. She even placed a couple of biscuits on the saucer.
“We’re to a party tonight, Miss Jayne,” Lady Morton informed her. “You will accompany us. I assume you haven’t an evening gown?”
“You assume right, my lady.” Embarrassed, Finley took a sip of tea to hide her flush. Would the lady think twice now about hiring her?
“No worries,” Phoebe said with a wave of her hand. “I have plenty. You may borrow mine until we can get you some of your own. We’ll go to the dressmaker’s tomorrow.”
Finley paled. If the cost of gowns came out of her salary she’d still be poor next year.
Phoebe chuckled. “It won’t be that horrible, trust me. I’ll make certain they don’t put you in anything horrendous, and Papa will pay for it. You don’t have to do a thing but stand there and hope they don’t stick you with a pin.”
Any minute she was going to wake up from this amazing dream and find herself in a workhouse or something equally awful.
“You’re too generous.”
Phoebe laughed again and flashed a smile at her mother, who also looked amused. “You won’t think that this evening when you’re bored out of your skull.”
She’d never been to an aristocratic function before. What if she made a fool of herself? Or worse—of Phoebe?
