Such as inside the wardrobe. Eliza threw the doors open, preparing a variety of suitable lies in case someone were to come upon her, and began to rummage through.
If there were any false panels built in, she’d have to find them another day; she couldn’t spare that kind of time now. But Eliza dug swiftly through the clothes and shoes, making sure there was nothing tucked away in a back corner—and then her eyes fell upon the hatboxes at the top.
Instinct overcame caution. Eliza dragged the chair back over, pulled the front boxes out of the way, and reached for one at the back. It proved to be inappropriately heavy, and when she lifted the lid, a smile spread across her face. “Caught you.”
Whatever hat had once occupied this box was long gone. In its place were books, magazines, and pamphlets. Eliza paged through them, hardly breathing. A pair of gothic novels, showing signs of repeated reading. A book of poems by someone named Oscar Wilde. An advertisement for a mesmerist. Scattered numbers of a few spiritualist magazines, and some pamphlets by Frederic Myers, whose name Eliza recognized. He and some other fellows had done a great deal of research into mediums and ghosts, even forming their own Society for Psychical Research.
Was Miss Kittering interested in contacting a departed spirit, or did she fancy herself a medium? Eliza supposed it didn’t matter. Either way, this collection held a great many things Mrs. Kittering would not approve of in the slightest, not with her insistence upon perfect respectability. Nothing on faeries, not that Eliza could see without a more detailed search—but plenty that spoke of disreputable things.
At the creak of the stairs, her heart leapt into her mouth. Eliza hastily crammed everything back into the hatbox, shoved it into place, threw the doors shut—catching them at the last instant so they would not slam—and put the chair back more or less where it belonged, before flinging herself at the fireplace, where she ought to be hard at work.
When the door opened, she knew that only vanity had saved her from discovery. Not hers, but that of the footman Ned Sayers, who invariably paused to admire himself in the looking glass mounted at the top of the family staircase. Mrs. Kittering did not sack footmen as often as she did maids, because of the necessity of keeping a pair who were reasonably well matched in height and looks; as near as Eliza could tell, Ned Sayers’s face was the only thing keeping him in his position.
She offered him a smile, hoping he wouldn’t notice that she had only just begun to rub black lead into the iron bars of the fireplace grate, when she should have been nearly done. Sayers smiled back, and held up a pair of delicate ankle boots. “Just returning these,” he said.
“I hope they weren’t too much trouble to clean,” Eliza said. Servants’ gossip was her other great hope of learning anything; they knew far more about their masters and mistresses than those employers liked to consider. But Mrs. Fowler, who watched over their meals, had little tolerance for idle chatter; and when Eliza went to bed at night, she was far too exhausted to question Ann Wick, the upper-housemaid whose room she shared. Hoping to get something from Sayers, she added, “From what I hear, Miss Kittering can be dreadful hard on her belongings. A real hoyden, that one.”
The footman shrugged, going past her. “I suppose.” Eliza watched surreptitiously as he opened the wardrobe doors and tossed the boots casually onto the bottom shelf; she prayed he would not notice anything out of place. Then she saw her rag still lying on the chair, and jerked her eyes back to the grate, cursing silently. But Sayers only said, “If you’d like, I could shine your shoes up for you. Such a pretty ankle you have.”
A hand settled on Eliza’s calf, exposed where she knelt to do her work, and she jumped in surprise. Her sleeve caught on the knob of the ash pan; for a moment she was off balance, almost falling. Sayers caught her. Eliza dropped the brush in her haste to be free of him. “Mr. Sayers—”
“Ned, please.” He smiled at her.
Eliza did not like that smile at all. Maids could be turned off for dallying with men; perhaps Mrs. Kittering was not solely to blame for all the departures. But if she made him angry with her, that could be trouble, too. “I’m already behind in my work,” she said, dodging the question of what name to use. Picking up the brush, she frowned; it had rolled off the canvas she’d put down and left a smear of oily black lead on the floor. Then she bit back a curse in Irish, seeing that she’d gotten some of it on her hands, too. Even if Sayers left, there would be no returning to those hidden pamphlets; she’d leave dirty finger marks everywhere.
“You’ll always be behind. Sunup to sundown, and Mrs. Kittering will be displeased at something you’ve failed to do; what’s a bit more, in exchange for some fun?”
It cut too close to the bone. Sayers was right about the work; this house was so big, and the staff perpetually shorthanded, that Eliza found herself busy every waking minute. A stray thought had her wondering how deeply Miss Kittering slept, and that frightened her into sensibility: if she was considering sneaking into the young woman’s room at night, then she had lost every last shred of sense.
All of which made Eliza’s tone harder than was perhaps wise when she said, “I need this job, Mr. Sayers. Mrs. Kittering may be displeased whatever I do, but that’s no reason for me to add to it a-purpose.”
Sayers frowned. She could hardly bring herself to care; surely any trouble he posed would take time to really vex her, and she had no intention of being here long enough to give him the chance. What mattered was Miss Kittering, and her secrets.
“I thought you a more friendly girl than this,” he said.
Eliza almost laughed in his face. Fergus Boyle had said much the same to her once, and she knew well what kind of “friendliness” they were trying to coax out of her. But no; if I laugh he will be angry, and I should avoid that if I can. “I’m sorry, Mr. Sa— Ned. It’s just that life has been miserable hard for me lately, and this position is the best bit of luck I’ve had in ages. I don’t dare risk it. Please, forgive me.”
His given name stuck in her craw, as did the apology, but it had the desired effect; the footman’s hard mouth softened into a more accepting line. And he didn’t even offer to make life easier for her—not yet, anyway. Eliza had little doubt such false promises would come. “How could I not forgive a pretty face like that?” he asked—stretching the truth close to the breaking point, for Eliza knew herself no beauty. Her life had been much too hard for that.
When the door opened a second time, she wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or dismayed, for she was sure it would be Mrs. Fowler, come to thrash Eliza for being a sluggard. But the figure in the doorway was half a foot shorter and half the housekeeper’s size, and dressed ten times more finely: Miss Louisa Kittering herself.
Eliza shot to her feet and curtsied. Sayers rose more lazily, and though he stood behind Eliza, out of her sight, she was sure he tried one of his smiles on Miss Kittering, for the young woman’s mouth twisted in disdain. “Don’t you have work to do?” she asked him.
“Of course, miss.” He had the gall to pinch Eliza’s rump as he left. She went rigid, then remembered herself and curtsied again. “I was just polishing the grate, miss. I’ll come back later—”
“No, help me change clothes.” Miss Kittering shut the door again and tossed her bonnet carelessly toward the bed. It fell short, and rolled across the carpet.