by Jo Victor
What she saw in the mirror wasn’t encouraging. She looked positively gaunt, her bloodshot eyes staring out of her too-pale face like red, white, and blue marbles. How patriotic. And her hair! When it got this long it never looked good first thing in the morning, but today was especially bad. She wished she’d taken time to have it cut before she left. She’d just have to hope she could find someone in the village who knew what to do with hair as curly as hers. Another thing to add to her list.
She shuddered to think that she had looked even half this bad the previous day. Why on earth Cam had wanted her number was beyond imagining. Maybe she was one of those flirty types that hit on every woman they met, by reflex. Just as well she hadn’t encouraged her. Not that she had so many offers she could afford to be choosy, but still, there were limits.
Eventually she staggered downstairs and into the kitchen, coming to a startled stop at the sight of a tiny white-haired woman standing at the stove, back toward her.
“Uh, good morning.”
The woman turned around. “So. You’re up, then.” She gave Alex an unsmiling once-over that made her wish she had done a bit more with herself than run a brush through her hair. The woman glanced pointedly at her bare feet, and she could feel herself blush.
Still, she plastered a smile on her face and stepped forward, offering her hand. “I’m Alex Petrocelli.”
After an uncomfortably long pause, the woman reached out and gave her a surprisingly firm shake. “Elspeth Tate. Mrs.”
“How do you do, Mrs. Tate.”
“Sit you down. Porridge is nearly ready.” She turned her back and began filling the teakettle.
“Thank you, but you really didn’t need to make me breakfast. Actually, I prefer to do that sort of thing for myself.”
Mrs. Tate put the kettle down with a clank and turned back around, crossing her arms over her chest. “Oh, you do, do you?”
Uh-oh. “It’s very kind of you, truly, but you don’t need to go to any trouble on my account. I’m used to taking care of myself.”
“I see. One of those leave-me-be sorts, are you?”
“Not really. It’s just—”
“And next I suppose you’ll be telling me there’s no call for me to be troubling myself about the place at all now that you’re here. After twenty-five years of doing for the Foundation and the Scholars! You’ll be taking care of that, too, I’ve no doubt.”
“No, that’s not what I—”
Mrs. Tate hadn’t paused. “The way you did yesterday, I suppose. Every light in the place left to burn all night, the back door wide open, and food left lying about for that fool cat to help itself to.”
As if on cue, the cat in question, a fine big marmalade tabby, made its appearance and began rubbing against Alex’s leg.
“I’m sorry about the lights. I was so tired I just forgot about them. I won’t do that again, I promise.” She glanced at the table but there was no sign of the scone. Either the cat had eaten every crumb or Mrs. Tate had cleared away the evidence. “And the scone—I didn’t realize leaving it on the table would be a…Wait a minute, did you say the back door was open? Wide open? But it was closed last night, I’m sure it was. I never even went near it.”
“Well, not wide open, truth to tell. More ajar. But open, nonetheless. Never went near it, you say?” She glanced at the door, then back at Alex. In a slightly mollified tone, she said, “Well, it’s possible I didn’t shut it quite tight behind me yesterday—it’s a bit tricky, doesn’t always catch the way you think it has. The least little thing can open it again.”
“And I’d say we’ve got that least little thing right here.” Alex bent down and picked up the cat, who seemed quite happy to be cradled. “What’s his name?”
“Her name. She’s Grace.”
“Hello, Grace. Scapegrace, by the sound of things.” That surprised a sharp laugh out of Mrs. Tate. Shaking her head, she returned to her work.
Alex sat, still holding the culprit, who graciously allowed herself to be petted. “You are a naughty girl, aren’t you? Yes, you are. You know you are. Did you eat my scone? Such a bad, bad kitty. And such a pretty kitty. Yes, you are.”
By the time Grace had had enough attention and demanded escape, Mrs. Tate had a cup of tea ready for her. Alex took it gratefully. A few blissful sips later it was joined by a hearty bowl of porridge with plenty of butter, cream, and honey, along with a perfectly boiled egg and several pieces of toast—served with blackberry jam so bursting with flavor it had to be homemade. Mrs. Tate waved away Alex’s thanks and began washing dishes, leaving Alex to focus on her food. It was all delicious.
After a second cup of tea she felt almost human and asked Mrs. Tate to join her, a bit surprised but pleased when she did so.
As she poured her own cup, Mrs. Tate said, “I always like to see a Scholar with a hearty appetite. Makes me feel I’ve properly earned my wages.” She actually smiled. “Once in a while I’ve had older gentlemen who could really tuck in, but usually it’s the younger ones, like you. Although that last one was such a prune-faced stick, no more appetite than a bird, for all he hadn’t seen thirty yet. Old before his time and no mistake. That one’s trouble, I said to myself the very first morning, and trouble he was.”
“Oh?” The very first morning. Yikes. Alex could only be grateful for her own narrow escape from a similar disaster—at least, she hoped she’d escaped.
“Nothing was ever good enough for him, always complaining. If it wasn’t the food, it was drafts, or cold, or damp, or noises in the night. As if anyone staying in Dawson House wouldn’t have sense enough to expect a few strange noises or a bit of a chill.”
“Of course. It’s such an old building.”
Mrs. Tate gave her an odd look. “It’s not that old, as places round here go.” She laughed, but it sounded a little forced. “You Americans seem to think anything still standing after a hundred years is ancient. But I expect you’re right.”
Alex decided it was best to change the subject, so she asked Mrs. Tate to explain her schedule and any other things she thought Alex should know about.
There turned out to be quite a few things. Eventually Alex excused herself to get pen and paper from the study to take notes. In addition to the details of Mrs. Tate’s schedule—including serving Alex “a proper hot dinner” at noon, sharp—Alex was treated to an extensive lecture on household management, Dawson House style. This seemed to principally consist of leaving everything to Mrs. Tate. At first Alex was inclined to argue, especially when it came to things like doing her own laundry, but the housekeeper’s expression grew so sour when Alex diffidently suggested a microwave, that Alex immediately dropped the idea.
Having learned her lesson, Alex’s remaining contributions to the conversation consisted of “Yes, Mrs. Tate,” “No, Mrs. Tate,” and “I wouldn’t dream of such a thing, Mrs. Tate,” until finally the housekeeper was smiling at her again. She even relented so far as to allow that Alex would probably be able to manage on her own on weekends without too much difficulty, so long as she faithfully followed Mrs. Tate’s precepts, for which gracious expression of confidence Alex dutifully thanked her.
One thing that was clearly impressed upon Alex—she underlined it twice—was that if anything broke down, no matter how small, on no account was she to attempt repairs herself. The Foundation would have someone in to take care of all that, no doubt a member of Mrs. Tate’s extended family, which by the sound of things had been making itself useful to the Foundation for generations.
Alex glanced at the photo on the wall. She wondered whether Janet had been like Mrs. Tate, a benevolent dictator holding absolute sway over her domain, leaving poor Artemisia afraid to pick up her own stockings lest she offend. She certainly looked like someone who would have brooked no nonsense—all for your own good, of course.
Eventually Mrs. Tate shooed her out of the kitchen, saying she had work to do, so Alex went upstairs to unpack, which didn’t take all that long, considering how heavy
her bags had been. Her room did indeed have an excellent view of the moor, and it looked so glorious in what she was sure was the rare sunshine she decided she could fit in a quick hike before Mrs. Tate put dinner on the table. Tying on her shoes and grabbing a jacket, she headed downstairs and out the front door, planning to loop around to the back of the house.
Ian had been absolutely right—there was a path just beyond the back gate that led straight up to the moor. It was an easy climb and she took her time, pausing often to look back for increasingly spectacular views of the village and surrounding countryside. Far too soon, it was time to head back, but she promised herself that the next time she’d make it all the way to Bram Tor, just as she’d planned.
She had to run a little bit at the end, but still managed to present herself at the kitchen table before the clock finished striking noon, and just as well, too, given the glower Mrs. Tate gave her. However, by the end of the meal all was forgiven. Apparently Alex’s appreciation for her cooking—not in the least feigned, for it was remarkably good—made up for a lot of other faults in Mrs. Tate’s eyes.
Alex found it strange that Mrs. Tate refused to eat with her. For Alex, it was bad enough being waited on by someone old enough to be her grandmother, but to have that someone standing by without taking part in the meal she herself had prepared was downright peculiar. Mrs. Tate certainly wasn’t trying to make her feel uncomfortable—it wasn’t as if she were staring at Alex and watching her chew, or interrupting her every five minutes like an over-eager waiter on a low-tip night to ask if she needed anything—but still, it was awkward.
She tried to imagine what it would be like to live in a world where this kind of thing was normal. That was the world Artemisia and Lady Melissa had been born into—a world divided in two, where one group of people devoted their lives to taking care of the other, and everyone thought of it all as natural, inevitable, even God’s will—and God help anyone who didn’t know their place and keep to it.
She wondered which would be worse—to belong to the group assigned to lifelong drudgery, or to be on the other side, thinking you deserved everything the universe by sheer good luck had tossed in your lap, never realizing your whole life was based on lies.
Looking over at the photo on the wall, she wondered what Janet would have said about it. After all, she had spent, what, sixty years in service, one way and another, if Ian’s memory was accurate. And she certainly didn’t look downtrodden. Quite the opposite, in fact. What really mattered, Alex supposed, was not how the world saw you, but how you saw yourself, and whether you and the people around you treated one another with respect.
Alex shook her head. Too much thinking for one afternoon.
After Mrs. Tate left for the day, Alex considered going for another walk but decided to try a different kind of exploration instead, heading for the archive room. The files alone proved so fascinating—document after document about the Foundation, the Scholars, and all their research, plus of course plenty of information about Lady Melissa and Artemisia, not to mention contemporaries of theirs like Keats, Wollstonecraft, and Wordsworth—that hours went by before she realized it. It was only her growling stomach that made her finally stop.
Her supper was waiting for her in the refrigerator as promised, and after all that time spent working, she was truly grateful not to have to do more than heat it up. Maybe Mrs. Tate was on to something.
Chapter Four
The next day Alex woke up feeling much better. Mrs. Tate fed her another excellent breakfast, and afterward, since the weather still held, she went for another walk. This time she finally made it all the way to Bram Tor. She spotted neither hawks nor hares during her recitations—perhaps they didn’t share her taste in poetry—but the views were glorious and the air was crisp and clean.
When she ran out of poems, she ventured a more-or-less-on-key version of the one Yorkshire ballad she knew. She sang all the way home as well. She didn’t have much of a voice, and she expected she was mangling the dialect, but she figured enthusiasm made up for a lot—especially when no one else was listening.
After lunch, Alex figured it was time to pay her respects to whoever was in charge over at the museum. Spending time with some stuffy management type was not her idea of fun, but duty was duty. Besides, she wanted to get off to a good start with the local Foundation officials.
She hadn’t packed much in the way of formal clothing but pulled together a respectable-enough outfit thanks to the one decent blazer she owned, plus a plain T-shirt in a bold blue, and a pair of black trousers. Finally she selected a pair of earrings artsy enough to add a little pizzazz without being too outrageous. If the mirror wasn’t lying to her, her hair was behaving, and in general she looked much less of a fright than she had the previous day.
Armed with directions from Mrs. Tate and an assurance that the distance from Dawson House to the Hall was no walk at all, Alex set out for Highgate in reasonable spirits. By the time she was—she sincerely hoped—halfway there, her respect for Mrs. Tate, and for Artemisia, who by all accounts had made the trip on a daily basis whenever Lady Melissa was in residence, had considerably increased. The walk was certainly a long one and felt like it was mostly uphill. At least the path was well marked and in good repair, but Alex was glad she had chosen a sturdy pair of shoes.
She didn’t have much of a view of Highgate Hall until she was almost right on top of it, since whoever built it had clearly valued the comfort of a situation somewhat sheltered from biting winter winds over a more impressive but far less practical hilltop perch. As the path wound around the back of the hill and approached the front entrance, she got a better look.
The well-proportioned structure of local stone, long-since weathered to an indeterminate dark hue, nestled into a slight dip between two folds of rising ground, with the two lower floors backing into the hill itself, leaving only the two upper levels with what were probably spectacular views in all directions. Being no architecture expert, Alex couldn’t begin to guess at its history, but its strong, clean lines gave it a solid, homey feeling.
The wide-open gates that had doubtless given the Hall its name were suitably impressive, being almost twice Alex’s height and sporting a profusion of decorative ironwork and even a few touches of gilding. However, they were just as clearly ceremonial, there being no wall or barrier of any kind around the property, not even a hedge. Still, it didn’t seem right to bypass them, certainly not on her first visit. Alex strode through the gates and crunched up the curving gravel path to the front door.
A tasteful placard informed her of the hours that the museum was open to the public, concluding with a request to ring for admittance. Alex did so, enjoying the feel of the old-fashioned bellpull and the joyful clanging it produced. The signal was answered promptly by a smiling and efficient man of middle years and first-class tailoring who ushered Alex into an entrance hall that was surprisingly light and airy, given the sturdy feel of the building’s exterior.
When she had introduced herself and stated her business, his welcome changed from professionally to genuinely friendly. He offered her a seat, which she accepted, and tea, which she declined, before ascending the grand staircase in pursuit of whichever official was responsible for dealing with all things Brockenbridge.
Returning a few minutes later, he led the way up to the third level and down several corridors until they reached a door marked Liaison in gleaming brass. He knocked, and upon hearing a brisk “Come in!” in a female voice, he pulled the door open and waved Alex into the room.
Alex stepped inside and stood there stunned, barely registering the faint closing of the door behind her and her guide’s retreating footsteps. The woman seated at the desk before her was unbelievably lovely, a fall of shining red hair framing her patrician features in perfect counterpoint to her smooth, creamy skin. Alex had no idea what color the woman’s eyes were since she was focusing on the computer in front of her, giving Alex a moment to close her mouth and try to recover.
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p; But that effort was wasted when the woman glanced up and Alex felt herself falling into a pair of the greenest eyes she had ever seen. For the first time in her life, she understood what breathtaking beauty really meant.
The woman started to laugh, a charming peal. “You’re Alex Petrocelli?” She laughed again. This time it was a bit less charming. As she stood and walked around the desk toward Alex, she said, “I can see I should have read that memo from the trustees more carefully.”
She smiled, inviting Alex to join her amusement. Alex attempted to comply, but her features felt stiff. She was used to being dismissed—or worse, ignored—by women as clearly out of her league as this one was, but this was a new low. She fought down the urge to run a hand through her hair or otherwise check for blemishes. Instead, she stiffened her spine and stuck out her hand.
“Yes, I’m Alex Petrocelli. How do you do.”
“Rosamund Camberwell.” Rosamund shook her hand, but didn’t let go of it. “You must pardon me, really you must. When I read the announcement that our new Brockenbridge Scholar was named Alex, naturally I assumed it was short for Alexander. We get so few women as fellows, you see.”
Alex supposed she did see. Withdrawing her hand, she said, “I’m very glad to be here, as you can well imagine, Ms. Camberwell.”
“Rosamund, please. And an American, as well. How lovely!”
Apparently, Rosamund, please, hadn’t bothered to learn even the most basic information about her, despite whatever responsibility she had for the Brockenbridge program. Alex took a moment to wonder just who had arranged her ride from the train station. She smiled thinly.
“As you can imagine, I’m anxious to get started. Is there anything I need to take care of before I begin?”
“You mean paperwork and so on? Oh, reams and reams, I’m sure. Let me put you on to Nicola. She’ll soon get you sorted out.”