“A ball gown? Mama, you must know better! I might as well throw myself at the poor man’s head!”
“I only thought he might notice you,” Daphne’s parent said defensively.
“He would certainly do that, for he would think me the most shockingly vulgar creature imaginable!”
Mrs. Drinkard heaved a sigh of regret. “I suppose you’re right. Tell me, do you think we should set out a bottle of your poor papa’s brandy? I suppose not—we wouldn’t want to waste it on the mill workers. Why does he want to meet with them, do you suppose?”
Daphne offered no opinion, for at that moment the door opened and a new arrival stood on the threshold, the autumn sun striking his bare head and turning his fair hair to gold. He was quite tall, and although he was clad in the rough clothing of the common laborer, he wore them with an air that even so exalted a personage as Sir Valerian might have envied. He carried a bulging valise, which indicated that he intended to stay. Daphne was not quite sure whether this was a good thing, or a bad one.
“I, er, I beg your pardon,” he said, his green-eyed gaze shifting from Daphne to her mother and back again. “Have I come to the right place? I was told I might hire a room here.”
“Yes, of course,” Daphne said quickly, suddenly aware that she was staring. “We have several rooms vacant at the moment. How long do you plan to stay with us?”
“I don’t know, exactly,” he confessed with a shrug. “It might be as long as several months. I—I’ve taken a position at the mill.”
“Oh,” she said, conscious of a pang of disappointment. A mill worker, then. And yet his speech was not like that of the mill workers, at least not any of those with whom she had come in contact. A gentleman fallen on hard times, perhaps? They must be very hard times indeed, if he was forced to seek employment in a cotton mill rather than securing a more genteel position as a land steward, or a tutor, or even a clerk.
“In that case, you’ll be wanting one of the less expensive rooms,” her mother deduced, giving Daphne a nudge. “Don’t just stand there, my love. Give me those linens, and then show our guest up to the Pennine Room. Dinner is served promptly at seven o’clock, Mr.—?”
“Tisdale. Theo Tisdale,” he said, offering her mother a handshake. He wore no gloves, Daphne noted. His hands were well-shaped, and although Daphne would not call them soft, she could not bring herself to believe they had ever done a day’s labor in their life.
“Mr. Tisdale,” Mrs. Drinkard echoed. “As I say, dinner is served at seven, so you’ll have time to wash up after work and put off your dirty clothes before joining us. Of course, you may make your own dining arrangements if you wish, which will reduce the cost of your room by sixpence per week. But my daughter will tell you all about that,” she concluded, taking the sheets from Daphne’s arms and shooing her toward the once-grand central staircase.
“The Pennine Room is the smallest, and thus the least expensive of the rooms,” Daphne explained, leading the way up the stairs and blushing for the threadbare carpet covering the treads. “It lets for one-and-six per week, but that does include breakfast and dinner, as Mama says, in addition to washing your linens every Friday. If you choose to dispense with dining or laundry services, it brings the cost of the room down to a shilling—or sixpence, if you choose to forego both.”
They had reached the top of the stairs by this time, and it seemed to Daphne that Mr. Tisdale let out a sigh of relief as she turned and started down the corridor.
“At least you’re not putting me up in the attic,” he remarked.
“No, for the attic is set up as a kind of ward. Cots are available for tuppence the night, but no meals are included, nor any washing.” She took a deep breath. “Mama meant no offense. I daresay she did not mention the attic because she thought it likely that you were accustomed to having a room of your own.”
He gave a bitter little laugh. “She’s in the right of it,” he said cryptically, but offered no particulars. “Have you any other, er, guests staying here?”
“Not guests so much as permanent residents. Mrs. Jennings is an elderly lady who came to us after her husband died—her room is at the opposite end of the corridor from the one to which I’m taking you. Old Mr. Nethercote has the room directly across the corridor from yours. He is quite deaf, you see, and so is unlikely to be troubled by any noise from the dining room directly below.” She glanced uncertainly up at him. “The Pennine Room is above the dining room as well, since it stretches from the front of the house to the back. That is, the dining room does, not the Pennine Room. I—I hope you will not be troubled by the noise. I daresay you will not—that is, I rather thought—”
“You thought I would come back from the mill so exhausted that I would collapse into bed and fall asleep regardless of any racket from below,” deduced Mr. Tisdale. “You’re very likely right. But I have to wonder exactly what goes on in the dining room that might disturb my sleep. Surely if there’s a meal being served, I’ll be in the dining room myself, contributing to the commotion.”
“Yes, but there are the preparations to be made—setting the table for breakfast, and of course clearing away the dishes after dinner. And tomorrow night, a gentleman has hired the room for holding a meeting.”
“A gentleman?” he echoed sharply. “Who?”
“His name is Sir
