“His Grace?” Elsie could not help asking. She had known Ashmore had gone to supervise and oversee the progress, but it was interesting to hear that the duke was actively involved in clearing the roads.
“Yes, he let the mail coach through,” Samson said. “Would you care for some tea, miss?”
“Mail?” Elsie was on her feet, suddenly engaged. If letters had been received here, then at least one letter should not be in the manor house. “I must go and find the butler, where would you say Peterson would be?”
Samson looked rather surprised by the burst of energy on Elsie’s behalf. “The kitchen, I believe.”
With quick steps, Elsie made her way through the bedroom, and down the stairs. She already had her own letter to Margot and her parents in her skirt’s pocket, and was hopeful to catch the mail coach. Presumably, the driver would have stopped in the house for a refreshment. It would have been nice to think that after several days in Tintagel and having grown used to the manor, that Elsie would have learnt some familiarity with it. Or failingthat, she would at least find it less intimidating. But that was not the case, the manor continued to unnerve her.
On entering the lower floors, the continued stale air of the place continued down here despite a much busier environment than the upstairs floors. Dust and low lighting created an atmosphere that put Elsie on edge. It seemed to slip under Elsie’s skin, to rub there uncomfortably. Despite this Elsie marched forwards, ignoring her instincts and forcing her feet towards the sound of voices.
When Elsie pushed open the kitchen door, it was to see two maids who she did not know. But sitting at the table, was the butler Peterson and the housekeeper, Mrs. Clarke. They were positioned close to each other, sharing a pot of tea. A wide faced, curly haired woman in her late forties stood close to the fireplace, Elsie suspected this was the cook, Mrs. Whitelaw. Everyone who turned to look at Elsie showed dismay at her arrival—it was clearly inappropriate for her to be in here, but Elsie could not be bothered with such formality. Not when she might have some contact with the outside world.
“I believe there have been some letters delivered to the house?” Elsie walked forward, moving closer to Peterson.
“Miss.” Peterson was on his feet and gave her a stiff little bow. “We did receive letters for the household an hour ago.”
“Was there anything addressed for me? If the driver is still here, I have several letters I need to send out.” Elsie pulled out her own envelopes, labelled to both her parents, sister, and brother.
Peterson eyed her letters most suspiciously. Slowly, he accepted these missives with a polite nod. “You have unfortunately missed the mail coach.”
Annoyance flooded through Elsie, surely it would have been the normal state of the household to alert her to the presence of the driver. But this had been Elsie’s experience of the Tintagel household in her time living here. Just enough slow difficultiesadded together, hard individually to accredit as being deliberate but enough, once accumulated, to be certain they were malicious.
“I would appreciate it, Peterson, if the next time the driver is here, that I am informed directly.”
“Of course, Miss.”
“I assume there were letters for me.”
“None.” The butler who had stood up to address her, remained in his position, and whilst he didn’t shift closer, there was a touch of intimidation to the man—perhaps from his stocky build, or from the militant look in his eye. Or simply because he refused to help her. It was most frustrating, and for a moment Elsie wanted desperately to open her mouth and question the validity of every servant present. There was no possibility that Margot hadn’t written—surely her sister would have been in touch? They had promised to write to one another. It made no sense that Margot would have…
“Is that all, miss?” This was from the housekeeper, who had stood up too. The woman’s eyes were boring into Elsie with a hardness that seemed unwarranted. “Did you wish for us to send up some tea or the like?” She sucked in her breath before adding, “Your maid should know that she can arrange such things.”
Elsie knew that. She would have betted all the coins in her possession that Samson knew too. And the reminder made her blush as Mrs. Clarke knew she wasn’t the lady she pretended to be. She knew that the servants would all still be talking about the state she’d been in when the duke had rescued her, presumably they all thought she’d set her cap at him.
It was just a way of ordering her from the kitchen, in another attempt to exclude her. All the household seemed to her to be conspiring against her making any sort of progress.
Forcing a mild expression onto her face, one which spoke of politeness and understanding, Elsie said, “Yes Mrs. Clarke, my maid has been informed. However, I would like to feel I can journey down here if the need is urgent.”
“This is a busy household,” Mrs. Clarke said most primly. It struck Elsie as a lie, given the general state of dust and decay that permeated the manor and the fact the five of them had been sitting around the kitchen table. But she was not their mistress to scold them so.
“Indeed,” Elsie interrupted whatever Mrs. Clarke planned to continue, saying, “but as I am just one guest, I hope I will not be an inconvenience.”
Without being unjustifiably rude there was nothing for Mrs. Clarke to do but bow her head and silently agree with Elsie’s assessment. She doubted as she moved away from the table and towards the door that it would change anything in their behaviour but at least she had shown them that she wasn’t going to simply accept their treatment. It wasn’t much but it was something, Elsie clung to that idea as she walked out of the kitchen and up the lonely, dark stairs. As soon as she had left the kitchen though, that minor sense of victory trailed away, and the sensation of isolation and annoyance washed back through her again—how was she supposed to achieve any of her goals if every way she turned there was a door closed in her face?
“Is that you, Miss Keating?” His voice was carrying but soft, with enough of a Cornish lilt, that vibrated through her, and Elsie had to suppress the feeling of bubbling joy as she turned towards Kit’s voice.
It was unnatural to feel such elation at a mere question, but it had been days since she’d seen him. Despite knowing this, his query warmed its way through her limbs, past the barriers of her dress and nestled in the pit of her stomach. She had wanted to see him. That was a rather galling thing to realise, and hastily Elsie tucked it away, ignoring the idea and whatever the consequences of what those sensations meant entirely.
“Ahh.” He was leaning out of a doorway, watching her. “I thought I heard you.”
“Your Grace.” She bobbed a curtsey. “I was informed you would be outside with the men.”
“Did you not hear the main road has been cleared, I sent several of the servants out to check on the nearby farms and buildings. Come.” He gestured to her to follow him, and cautiously, Elsie walked after him into the snug little sitting room. It was not a room she was familiar with, there was a mixture of furniture, some of it grand whilst other pieces looked a great deal humbler. Strewn over an oak table was a large collection of papers.
“You receive your letters,” she could not help but murmur.
Ashmore turned back to her and cocked an eyebrow. “Yes, yes, the post is here. Nothing sadly of importance.” He pointed her towards a seat at the table. “But there rarely is.”
