The Hanging Tree

wished she’d been offered some. She’d missed dinner as well, but no one seemed to care. This was her first day in the big house, and already she felt like a trapped bird. She hadn’t had a moment’s rest since arriving that morning, having been in the laundry room for several hours. Her clothes and hair were still damp from the hot steam rising from the great kettle, and her shoes were soaked through from the water that had sloshed onto her feet as she lifted the sopping linens out with a stick. The rest of the servants had their duties outlined and limited to a particular area of the house, but Alys and Millie, who’d come from Ashopton, would be utilized wherever they were needed until Mistress Helmsley had enough servants to staff the household.

Mistress Helmsley was about fifty, with ginger hair liberally streaked with gray, a body  as wide as it was tall, and a round face that was permanently pink from the heat of the kitchen. Alys had it from Lucy, who was thirteen and had helped her with the laundry, that Mistress Helmsley had started out in the kitchens when she was twelve and worked her way up to the position of housekeeper and cook by the time she was twenty-five, running the entire household since then in conjunction with the steward, Master Johnson, who’d only recently been replaced by Lord Lockwood’s man. She was motherly and quick to smile, a quality that made her popular with the servants.

“Come straight back here,” Mistress Helmsley called to Alys as she headed for the door. “I’ve got a bowl of stew waiting for ye as well.” A hint of a smile hovered around her generous lips, and Alys felt slightly better. At least now she had something to look forward to and was glad she didn’t have to ask for food like a beggar.

Alys had yet to get familiar with the house, which was vast and seemed to have a room for just about everything, but the study wasn’t difficult to find. It was on the ground floor, toward the back of the house, next to the library. Alys carefully balanced the tray on one hand as she knocked on the door.

“Come,” a voice called.

She pushed open the door and entered the study, nearly tripping over a mangy dog that sprang to its feet and began to sniff her enthusiastically. She’d never seen that type of dog before but thought it might be a deerhound.

“Duncan, sit,” Lord Lockwood commanded without looking up. He sat behind a massive desk, his head bent over an open ledger.

“I brought your dinner, sir,” Alys said, wondering if she should have addressed him or waited to be spoken to.

“Set it there,” Lord Lockwood said, gesturing toward the corner of the desk. He still hadn’t looked at her.

A flutter of nervousness beat in her belly. She recognized that voice, but surely it couldn’t be. The man she’d met in the woods had been modestly dressed and traveling alone. He’d introduced himself simply as Jeremy Lockwood, not Lord Lockwood, future master of Ashcombe Manor and son of a viscount.

Lord Lockwood looked up, his gaze solicitous. She recalled the green of those eyes. “Was there something I could do for you?” he asked kindly. His eyes opened wide, a warm smile spreading across his handsome face. “It’s you,” he said, and there was genuine wonder in his tone.

Alys opened her mouth to reply but had no idea what to say to the man.

Lord Lockwood recognized her difficulty and grinned even wider. “How have you been keeping, Alys? Are Master and Mistress Bailey well?”

“They were taken ill with the smallpox, but they’re all right now,” Alys replied, unsure how much he wished to hear.

“And you? Were you ill?” he asked, looking at her with concern.

“Only briefly. I’m fully recovered,” Alys added, in case he feared contagion.

“I’m glad to hear it. You look well,” Lord Lockwood said, and looked momentarily embarrassed. “Are you one of the new servants, then?”

“Yes, my lord. I only started this morning.”

“Well, if there’s anything you need, come to me anytime,” he said magnanimously. “I’m happy to help.”

Not likely, Alys thought. She’d rather eat glass than ask the lord of the manor for his help. “Thank ye, my lord.” She gave him an awkward curtsey and fled, her cheeks hotter than they’d been in the laundry room.

“Ye took yer time,” Mistress Helmsley said as she set a bowl of stew and a hunk of bread before Alys. “Did ye get lost? It’s a big house, I’ll grant ye that. When I first came here, I couldn’t believe this was all for one family, not when my ma and da lived in one room, with seven children all sleeping on a pallet on the floor.”

“Lord Lockwood wished to have a word,” Alys said as she shoved a spoonful of stew into her mouth. She was starving.

“What about?” Mistress Helmsley asked, clearly taken aback.

“We met in the woods a few weeks ago. His horse cast a shoe, and I showed him the way to the village. He remembered me, is all.”

Mistress Helmsley nodded. “He’s a good man. Kinder master than some,” she added meaningfully.

Her words were innocent enough, but there was something in her voice, an unspoken criticism of the mistress, if Alys had interpreted her comment correctly. She’d seen Marjorie Ashcombe at St. Botolph’s many times before she stopped attending services but knew nothing of the lady. She always walked in, back ramrod straight, shoulders back, gaze fixed on the altar, stayed for the service, then walked out to the waiting carriage. She never spoke to anyone or even acknowledged that there were other people inside the church, aside from Reverend Gilcrest and her parents. Master and Mistress Ashcombe had usually exchanged words of greeting with the villagers and often