Ashworth Hall - Anne Perry [16]
“Thank you very much,” Gracie accepted. It was most important she learn everything she could. One never knew when it might be needed. And if there really were danger, even a crime in the offing, she must know the house, the people, their natures and loyalties. “I’d like that,” she added with a smile.
Gwen proved most agreeable. Perhaps Mrs. Radley had confided in her something of the true nature of the weekend. Gracie found herself liking her—and the task of becoming familiar with the upstairs of the house, the staircases, the quickest way to the kitchens or the laundry room, the ironing room and the stillroom, and how to avoid the footmen, the bootboys and the butler, whose authority was absolute and whose temper was uncertain.
Charlotte had told her something of the guests who were expected, and she met Miss Moynihan’s maid, who was a pleasantly spoken French girl with a nice sense of humor. Mrs. McGinley’s maid was an older woman with a habit of shaking her head as if in premonition of some disaster, and Doll, a very handsome girl in her mid-twenties, was Mrs. Greville’s maid. She was tall, a good six inches taller than Gracie, and with a fine figure. She reminded Gracie of what a really excellent parlor maid should look like, except for a certain sadness in her, or perhaps it was aloofness. Gracie would have to know her better to decide.
She was on her way upstairs, having parted from Gwen, when she saw a young man starting down. Her first thought was what a charming face he had. His hair was very dark, black in the inside fight, and his mouth was gentle, as if his mind might be full of dreams.
Then her second thought was that she must have mistaken the stairs and be on the wrong flight. She stopped, feeling the blood rush up her face. She would have to meet such a person when she had made such a foolish error. And yet looking up at the landing above, it was exactly like the one she had come down from. The small table had white chrysanthemums on it in a green vase, against pale green-and-white wallpaper. There was even a gas bracket with a frosted-glass mantle exactly like the one she had seen on the way down. How confusing to have two stairs so much the same.
He had stopped also.
“Beggin’ your pardon,” he said in a soft Irish accent, quite different from that of Miss Moynihan’s maid. He must be from another part of the country. He stood aside for her to pass, smiling and meeting her eyes. His were very dark, the darkest she had ever seen.
“I … I think I’m on the wrong stair,” she stammered. “I’m sorry.”
“The wrong stair?” he asked.
“I … I must be on the menservants’ stairs, not the women’s,” she said, feeling the heat burning in her cheeks.
“No,” he said quickly. “No, I’m sure it’s me on the wrong one. Sure I didn’t even think of it. You must be visiting here, like me, or you’d know for certain.”
“Yes. Yes, I belong to Mrs. Pitt. I’m her lady’s maid.”
He smiled at her again. “I’m Mr. McGinley’s valet. My name’s Finn Hennessey. I come from County Down.”
She smiled back at him. “I’m Gracie Phipps.” She came from the back streets of Clerkenwell, but she wasn’t going to say so. “I’m from Bloomsbury.” That was where she lived now, so it was true enough.
“How do you do, Gracie Phipps.” He inclined his head in a very slight bow. “I think there is going to be a rare party this weekend, especially if this fine weather holds. I’ve never seen such a garden, so many great trees. It’s a lovely land.” He sounded vaguely surprised.
“Have you never been to England before?” she asked.
“No, I never have. It’s not much like I expected.”
“What did you think it’d be, then?”
“Different,” he said thoughtfully.
“Different how?” she pressed.
“I don’t think as I know,” he confessed. “Different from Ireland, I suppose. And at least for this one bit of it, it could be Ireland, with all those trees, and the grass, and flowers.”
“Is Ireland very beautiful?”
His face softened and his whole body seemed to ease, till instead of standing to attention