The Winter Companion (Parish Orphans of Devon #4) - Mimi Matthews Page 0,3
bushy white brows.
“Miss Hartwright?”
Heat drifted out from inside the house, enveloping Clara in a warm embrace. She took an unconscious step toward it. “I am Miss Hartwright.”
“Indeed, ma’am. Mrs. Bainbridge is expecting you.” He drew back to admit her. “Welcome to Greyfriar’s Abbey.”
She stepped into the spacious hall. The interior of the Abbey appeared as luxurious as the outside was stark and grim. Daylight filtered in through the high, stone-framed windows, illuminating walls papered in softly shaded silk, and a floor covered in rich Aubusson carpet, spun with threads of crimson and gold.
There was no one waiting to issue a formal welcome, and no sign of Mrs. Bainbridge, or any of the others who Clara had traveled up with in the carriage.
“Allow me to take your wet things,” the butler said.
She divested herself of her cloak and gloves, grateful to be rid of them. Her woolen dress underneath was nothing very special, but at least it was neat and dry. As she smoothed her hair and skirts, another servant appeared. An older woman in a plain black dress and starched cap. The housekeeper, Clara presumed.
“Miss Hartwright? You’ll wish to freshen your appearance before tea is served. Permit me to show you to your room.”
Clara followed after her up a single flight of oak stairs. The steps rose to a landing, after which they divided into two separate branches leading to opposite wings of the floors above.
“I’ve put you in a room next to Mrs. Bainbridge.” The housekeeper stopped outside a wood-paneled door at the end of a narrow corridor, and opened it for Clara to enter. “She asks that you go to her after you’ve repaired your hair and dress.”
“Yes, of course.” Clara advanced into the room. It was as richly papered and carpeted as the hall had been, and equally as warm. At its center was a four-poster bed, curtained in dark green fabric. A wardrobe stood to the left of it, between two velvet-draped windows. At its right was a wooden washstand with a porcelain pitcher and bowl.
“There’s hot water to wash with, and Robert has brought your cases in from the carriage.”
Clara went to the foot of the bed, where her carpetbag and portmanteau had been neatly stacked atop a padded bench. “When will tea be served?”
“In a quarter of an hour.” The housekeeper paused. She gave a delicate cough, her face a studied blank. “You received a parcel yesterday. I’ve put it on your dressing table.”
Clara’s gaze jerked to the dainty walnut table in the corner of the guest room. A large, overstuffed envelope was perched atop it, half propped against the looking glass.
Her pulse quickened.
“Will there be anything else, ma’am?” the housekeeper asked.
Clara willed herself not to apologize. After all, there was nothing irregular about giving out the direction of one’s host. Not when one was staying longer than a fortnight. “No, thank you.”
The housekeeper withdrew, leaving Clara to her thoughts—and to her parcel.
She flew to the dressing table and retrieved it. It was a solid, familiar weight in her hands. Her fingers itched to tear it open. To see if this time Simon had done what he’d promised to do.
But there was no time. Not now. Not with Mrs. Bainbridge waiting, and tea in a quarter of an hour.
She was already on thin ice with her employer.
Companions were meant to be next door to invisible. Rather like genteel ghosts, mutely shadowing the steps of their corporeal benefactors. Quiet and obliging, that was the companion’s motto. Words, when spoken, were best kept to a murmured minimum. Yes, ma’am. No, ma’am. I’ll fetch your shawl, ma’am.
That much Clara knew to a certainty. Her previous employers had known it as well. They’d been happy to overlook her very existence. During the course of the past four years, she’d been regularly trod upon, shouldered out of the way, or addressed by the wrong name.
But not today.
Today, she’d arrived to meet her new employer at the railway station in London with an unauthorized pug in tow. A sign of independence—nay, insubordination—that