“Will probably walk with us, too,” Grace admitted.
“I think I’ll stick to the bench in the garden,” Tiffany replied. “Thank you for inviting me.”
“You are welcome.”
Mrs. Twitchel came down the hall from the upper servants’ rooms. “Very trim,” she said approvingly, looking them both up and down. “Services will start shortly. We should meet the others downstairs.”
The day was sunny, although brisk and cold. The short walk from the manor house to the cathedral was an easy one over brick sidewalks that had been swept clean that very morning.
Is this the church Elizabet “reads up” on Saturdays?
This seems so strange, to be in a group of respectable people and not sizing them up to see if I can pick their pockets or wheedle some largess from them.
Tiffany shook off these thoughts and focused on her surroundings. As cathedrals go, this was a small one. It was constructed of native stone, with a shingled, gambrel roof. A respectable steeple rose from the peak, from which a bell was calling everyone to worship.
Lord Northbury walked at the head of the procession.
He must feel lonely up there, with not even the butler or Mrs. Twitchel to keep him company. I never thought of a Marquess as being lonely before.
Tiffany was jolted out of her reverie by catching her toe on a brick and stumbling slightly.
“Careful!” Grace cautioned, catching her by the elbow. “These bricks are a little uneven.”
“So they are,” Tiffany replied. “I’ll have to pay better attention to where I am putting my feet.”
“What were you thinking about?” Grace asked. “If I did not know better, I would say that you were mooning over a lover.”
Tiffany opened her mouth to say what she had been thinking, then remembered that it would probably not be received well. “No such luck, I fear. Just woolgathering.”
“Gather your wool a little more quietly,” admonished Mrs. Twitchel.
The household entered the cathedral together. Small as it was, compared to some of the grander places of worship in the more central parts of the city, it was a lovely place. Light streaming in through colored glass windows caught the rich wood tones of the pews, and stone columns supported arched timbers overhead. The scent of beeswax and incense pervaded the air.
Lord Northbury entered the family box and the servants seated themselves in the rows behind, in order of their rank. Tiffany found herself seated between Mrs. Twitchel and Grace.
Tiffany heard little of the service, although she stood, sat, and kneeled, following Mrs. Twitchel’s example. Instead, she watched the back of the Marquess’s head as he went through the proper responses. He sat by himself in a large, empty pew.
What would it be like to be so alone? With both his parents dead and no other family members, he has no one to keep him company.
The walk back to the manor house was similar to the walk to the cathedral. Upon arrival, the servants went on around to the side entrance, McClellan being given precedence, while the Marquess went up the front steps.
Luncheon was a cold buffet that Michaels had laid out before retiring. Tiffany sat with the below-stairs staff, which was still sparse. She finished eating quickly, then went up to her room to get the handkerchiefs to hem. The room was empty, so she almost sat in the chair beside the small window, but continued on her planned course. Better to be chilled than to spend her half-day trying to be nice to Sophie.
Outside, the sun was warm in spite of a brisk breeze. Fortunately, the bench was placed on the south side of a low wall that blocked most of the wind. Tiffany walked around the garden, which was scarcely more than rows of mulch at this season, then settled down with her sewing.
Chapter 15
Percival watched from the library window that looked out over the gardens as Miss Bentley walked all around the vegetable garden, then settled herself on a low bench.
What is she up to now? Why isn’t she out walking with the other staff members?
Percival realized that she had taken something out of her pocket, and was now working on it intently. Overcome with curiosity, and having nothing better to do, he decided to see to what she was applying herself so diligently.
As he stepped out of the kitchen door, he realized that although it was chilly, this area was shielded from the light breeze, and was relatively warm. He approached Miss Bentley quietly. When he drew nearer, he could see that she held a white cloth and was stitching on it diligently.
“Good afternoon,” he said tentatively.
“Oh! My Lord!” Miss Bentley quickly stood up, and clutching the sides of her skirt, gave him a punctiliously correct curtesy.
