Free Fiercombe Manor by Kate Riordan Page A

skin felt powdery and soft, like a pair of kid gloves.
    â€œMrs. Jelphs?” I stammered.
    She nodded. “We’re glad to have you here at Fiercombe, though I’m sorry it’s under such tragic circumstances, Mrs. . . . I don’t think your mother mentioned your married name.”
    I stared at her for a long moment, until I realised that she was referring to my fictitiously deceased husband. My mind cast about desperately for a plausible surname, but all I could think of was Elton.
    â€œOh no. I mean, thank you. And please, call me Alice.”
    â€œYes, of course, if that’s easier for you. I suppose those kinds of motoring accidents have grown quite common in a great city like London, but I’m sure that hasn’t made it any less dreadful.”
    â€œNo.” I looked at my feet. I felt horribly dishonest lying to someone who seemed kind. I wondered what had happened to her husband, and felt dreadful at the thought that she might have been genuinely widowed herself.
    â€œWe won’t talk of it if it upsets you. I can’t pretend to understand exactly how you must feel, because I never married—it seems that housekeepers are always referred to as ‘Mrs.,’” she said softly, as though she had read my mind. I shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot.
    â€œWell, I hope that you will find some peace here. I think it was a very sensible idea of the doctor’s, to prescribe a new setting for you after all that’s happened. I’m so glad your mother remembered me and thought I might be able to help. She said that you must earn your keep, but in truth, with the family so rarely here, there is not a great deal to do. What you need is quiet; a place for your mind to heal itself while your body is busy growing your child.” She smiled for the first time.
    I nodded, not quite trusting myself to speak. It seemed that Mrs. Jelphs believed my story implicitly.
    â€œIs she keeping well, your mother? Of course she is Mrs. Eveleigh now, but I still think of her in my mind as the girl I knew from the village where we grew up, when she was still Maggie Litten. It’s been so many years. A whole lifetime ago.”
    â€œYes, she is quite well, thank you. She sends her regards to you, of course.”
    â€œYou’ll be wanting some tea,” she said, and turned to the hearth, her movements deft and economic as she worked.
    She had about her a scent of lavender and talcum that reminded me unexpectedly of my mother’s mother. My Gloucestershire grandmother. At this thought I felt tears prickle alarmingly behind my eyes and inhaled audibly so I didn’t cry. She turned at the sound and saw my face almost crumple, I felt sure of it, but she didn’t say anything, merely crossing the room to a sideboard, where a tray had already been laid with cups and saucers and slices of bread and butter. I had been so afraid that she would be hard, like my mother, but she wasn’t; only contained.
    When the tea leaves had been measured and spooned into the pot and the steaming water poured over them, she picked up the tray and led the way through the doorway she had surprised me at before. The corridor was narrow and had no windows, which accounted for the lack of light. Under my feet, which I could hardly see, I felt the floor fall away slightly, only to rise and almost trip me. It seemed that the manor’s resistance to straight lines and perpendicular angles extended inside, lending the oak floor a drunken camber.
    When we had passed half a dozen closed doors in the same dark wood that rippled beneath me, the passage widened and eventually opened out into a large hall. This was the formal entrance to the house; I supposed the kitchen garden led to the service, and servants’, entrance. After the confinement of the corridor, the hall felt enormous and chilly. It soared to the full height of the building and contained a staircase that was intimidating