Free Manor of Secrets by Katherine Longshore Page A

was just getting the hang of it — the music building into the final measures — when Lawrence stepped her into a spin. She turned beneath his arm, looking up into his face. His hand was light on hers against her stomach. His breath whispered on her cheek.
    Suddenly, Janie pushed between them, clipping Charlotte’s hip on the edge of the table and nearly sending her sprawling.
    “What the bloody letter, Janie?” Lawrence yelped, stumbling away from them.
    “Language, Lawrence,” another voice said.
    Everything in the room stopped. Mrs. Griffiths, the housekeeper, stood in the doorway.
    Charlotte braced herself on the table. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lawrence buttoning his collar.
    “Lady Charlotte,” Mrs. Griffiths said coolly. She was the picture of deference, but her eyes held censure. Behind her, Charlotte caught a glimpse of Sarah the housemaid.
    Charlotte looked around the room, terrified. Hoping for rescue. When she saw her expression mirrored in theirs, she realized Janie and Lawrence could get into much more serious trouble than she could. So she stepped forward.
    “I was just going, Mrs. Griffiths.”
    Mrs. Griffiths narrowed her eyes. “Sarah, would you accompany Lady Charlotte to her room, please?” The housekeeper’s Welsh lilt grew more pronounced when she was angry.
    “Janie can take me, Mrs. Griffiths,” Charlotte said quickly.
    “A kitchen maid upstairs in the bedrooms?”
    The housekeeper’s voice conveyed all anyone needed to know. All Charlotte needed to know. No wonder Janie was afraid to go upstairs. No wonder she was afraid of getting caught. Charlotte wondered if Janie would come the next day at three o’clock. She wondered if she had made a mistake in asking.
    Janie didn’t move, but Sarah stepped aside to let Charlotte pass, one hand guarding her from the flame of the candle she held.
    As she walked through the kitchen doorway, Charlotte threw one last glance at Lawrence over her shoulder.
    But his eyes didn’t meet hers. So she walked up the stairs silently, the shadows of the candle following her.

J anie felt for the floor with her toes. The stuffiness of her attic room hadn’t abated much, even with the window open, and she felt a little queasy. She leaned over and shook Mollie, who snorted and flapped an angry hand and then turned over. Janie knew how she felt.
    Two hours of sleep.
    Mrs. Griffiths had brought Mr. Foyle, the butler, in. And all of the people still left in the servants’ hall. Mollie, Sarah, Tess. Even Lady Beatrice’s lady’s maid, who had just come down to ask for a needle and thread. Mr. Foyle had lectured them all on the house divisions for over an hour. Respecting the privacy of the family. But also respecting their status.
    “Remember your place,” he said at last. “Remember your station and never forget it.”
    Servants. Downstairs.
    “Remember that your life here begins and ends with the earl’s family. You are only temporary, and they will remain long after you are gone.”
    Janie knew The Manor wasn’t her real home. Not like it was Charlotte’s. Her life wasn’t a children’s story. But when she’d arrived, it had been like something out of Dickens, where a beneficent angel had bestowed upon her everything she’d ever wanted.
    Food.
    A bed.
    Her mother.
    A friend.
    Janie had Harry. And Charlotte had — what? Money. Comforts. Beautiful dresses. A mother who commanded much and bestowed little. And a room at the end of a long hall, far away from everyone else.
    So after Janie woke her mother, fed the servants, cleaned the kitchen, helped prepare luncheon, and cleaned the kitchen again , she washed her hands carefully, put on a clean apron and cap, and climbed the back stairs to the second-story landing.
    She stopped, one palm flat on the thick, woolly fabric that covered the green door. She didn’t have to go. She knew she shouldn’t go. It was too great a risk.
    But Harry’s words haunted her. And so did her glimpse of the