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Authors: Allison Chase
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chandelier. Instead she asked Mrs. Walsh, “Er, is Lord Harrow up and about yet this morning?”
“His lordship is in his laboratory.”
Ivy felt a burst of excitement at the prospect of finding Victoria’s stone this very day and making a hasty departure back to London. “Shall I report to him there?”
Mrs. Walsh came to a dead stop. “Certainly not. No one goes near the master’s laboratory without his express permission.”
Their ascent continued.
“But I am here to assist him.”
“And you’ll wait until his lordship sends for you.”
“How rude,” Ivy murmured.
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing.”
At the top of the stairs, they crossed the gallery and turned down a corridor, passing many doorways along the way. Larger by far than Thorn Grove, Harrowood made Ivy feel dwarfed and lost, as though she might never find her way out. Nonsense, of course; she could leave any time she pleased.
It was just that she had decided against writing home and alerting her sisters to this sudden change in plan. She hadn’t seen the point in alarming them, which they most certainly would be if they were to discover her living beneath a man’s roof without a proper chaperone. Especially a mad man’s roof. Good gracious, could Lord Harrow truly be attempting to resurrect his wife? And . . . would he expect Ivy to assist?
Mrs. Walsh interrupted her thoughts by pausing and drawing a heavy ring of keys from her apron pocket. Their clattering jarred Ivy’s already unsettled nerves. The woman unlocked the door before which they had stopped.
“This is your room,” she said unnecessarily. “Though why his lordship chose to house a fledgling apprentice—a servant, really—in the main portion of the house is beyond me. Perhaps to better keep an eye on you.”
“Perhaps.” Ivy bit her tongue to rein her true thoughts in. If only this crotchety woman knew whose servant she was—oh, what she wouldn’t give to see Mrs. Walsh’s face then!
“You’ll find bed linens in the bottom drawer of the clothespress. Hot water will be brought in morning and night, and soiled laundry carried out each afternoon. Luncheon is at eleven thirty. Not noon, so mind you don’t be late.” The woman turned to leave.
“Is there to be no breakfast served?” Ivy’s stomach had been giving off ominous rumblings since before she had left her residence hall.
The housekeeper’s lips twitched into something resembling a smile, the first Ivy had seen so far. “Breakfast has already been served. Seven o’clock sharp each morning. Why else would Lord Harrow want luncheon so early?”
“Wonderful.” As the woman strutted off down the passage, Ivy shut the chamber door with a thud loud enough to convey her frustration, not caring a whit if Mrs. Walsh heard or not.
She found herself in a room of generous proportions, with tall windows and darkly masculine furnishings. And why not? Surely Ned Ivers should not have been accommodated with flowers and chintz. But . . . Lady Gwendolyn’s room would certainly meet such a description. Ivy wondered which room it was, and whether the runaway lady-in-waiting might at that moment be awakening in her bed and preparing to start her day.
Had she given her brother Victoria’s stone? Did he know of its existence?
Ivy crossed to a set of curtained French doors and peeked out to discover a half-round balcony overlooking the rear of the house. As she stepped outside, her breath caught. Formal gardens, far grander than any Thorn Grove boasted, spread out below her. Laid in a sprawling pattern, the flower beds and walkways flanked a magnificent fountain that boasted four marble cherubs playing tiny trumpets around an angel from whose wings and outstretched hands the water flowed.
Blazing autumn colors had already claimed the trees, sharp and bright enough to make Ivy’s eyes water. Despite the fall chill, flowers blossomed in abundance: delicate purple asters and drooping hydrangea, fiery chrysanthemums
“His lordship is in his laboratory.”
Ivy felt a burst of excitement at the prospect of finding Victoria’s stone this very day and making a hasty departure back to London. “Shall I report to him there?”
Mrs. Walsh came to a dead stop. “Certainly not. No one goes near the master’s laboratory without his express permission.”
Their ascent continued.
“But I am here to assist him.”
“And you’ll wait until his lordship sends for you.”
“How rude,” Ivy murmured.
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing.”
At the top of the stairs, they crossed the gallery and turned down a corridor, passing many doorways along the way. Larger by far than Thorn Grove, Harrowood made Ivy feel dwarfed and lost, as though she might never find her way out. Nonsense, of course; she could leave any time she pleased.
It was just that she had decided against writing home and alerting her sisters to this sudden change in plan. She hadn’t seen the point in alarming them, which they most certainly would be if they were to discover her living beneath a man’s roof without a proper chaperone. Especially a mad man’s roof. Good gracious, could Lord Harrow truly be attempting to resurrect his wife? And . . . would he expect Ivy to assist?
Mrs. Walsh interrupted her thoughts by pausing and drawing a heavy ring of keys from her apron pocket. Their clattering jarred Ivy’s already unsettled nerves. The woman unlocked the door before which they had stopped.
“This is your room,” she said unnecessarily. “Though why his lordship chose to house a fledgling apprentice—a servant, really—in the main portion of the house is beyond me. Perhaps to better keep an eye on you.”
“Perhaps.” Ivy bit her tongue to rein her true thoughts in. If only this crotchety woman knew whose servant she was—oh, what she wouldn’t give to see Mrs. Walsh’s face then!
“You’ll find bed linens in the bottom drawer of the clothespress. Hot water will be brought in morning and night, and soiled laundry carried out each afternoon. Luncheon is at eleven thirty. Not noon, so mind you don’t be late.” The woman turned to leave.
“Is there to be no breakfast served?” Ivy’s stomach had been giving off ominous rumblings since before she had left her residence hall.
The housekeeper’s lips twitched into something resembling a smile, the first Ivy had seen so far. “Breakfast has already been served. Seven o’clock sharp each morning. Why else would Lord Harrow want luncheon so early?”
“Wonderful.” As the woman strutted off down the passage, Ivy shut the chamber door with a thud loud enough to convey her frustration, not caring a whit if Mrs. Walsh heard or not.
She found herself in a room of generous proportions, with tall windows and darkly masculine furnishings. And why not? Surely Ned Ivers should not have been accommodated with flowers and chintz. But . . . Lady Gwendolyn’s room would certainly meet such a description. Ivy wondered which room it was, and whether the runaway lady-in-waiting might at that moment be awakening in her bed and preparing to start her day.
Had she given her brother Victoria’s stone? Did he know of its existence?
Ivy crossed to a set of curtained French doors and peeked out to discover a half-round balcony overlooking the rear of the house. As she stepped outside, her breath caught. Formal gardens, far grander than any Thorn Grove boasted, spread out below her. Laid in a sprawling pattern, the flower beds and walkways flanked a magnificent fountain that boasted four marble cherubs playing tiny trumpets around an angel from whose wings and outstretched hands the water flowed.
Blazing autumn colors had already claimed the trees, sharp and bright enough to make Ivy’s eyes water. Despite the fall chill, flowers blossomed in abundance: delicate purple asters and drooping hydrangea, fiery chrysanthemums
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