“May I ask—what was my lord’s late wife like?
As head of house, I mean. I’d like to follow whatever
protocol she set out originally.” My curiosity was
sparked by her portrait, her flame-red jewel.
“Wives, you mean, don’t you?”
“Pardon?”
“Four of them dead, you see. Haven’t you seen the
paintings?”
“So many wives! How tragic!”
Hilda nodded gravely, studying my face, biting
her lip. “The last went missing. No one knows—”
But a noise at the door—the others were
arriving, and it was indecorous to talk of such things. I
stood at the door to greet them and hand them their
schedules. Our second maid, a hawkish looking
woman who never smiled, the gardener, with his
weathered face, and the chef, a portly man who—oh
yes, indeed—seemed to be carrying a live chicken in a
small cage. The chicken, as if understanding its fate,
paced and glared.
They sat, sipped their tea and ate their scones
with decent English silence, and before long, I realized
they were looking at me to start. “Well, greetings to
you all. Though some of you will be here
temporarily,” I nodded to the chicken, “I appreciate
you nonetheless.” They laughed. Thank goodness. I
worried they would be unwilling to take orders, but
they seemed relieved to have someone at the helm.
31