Chapter Five

The kitchen was a true horror to behold.

Pots and pans were stacked precariously on the counters, dishes and silverware piled carelessly around a large washing basin on a small table next to a cupboard. An open sack of flour sat in the corner of the room, its contents spilling onto the floor. Canisters of rice and beans stood on the mantel of the fireplace, the only items in the room that looked tidy, untouched even.

Everything was covered in a thin layer of dust.

Isabel watched a single ant crawl from the washing basin and scurry across the table.

"This isn't nice," Thomas said wisely, running a finger along a windowsill and examining the clean streak he had made on the wood. "Why is it so dirty?"

Isabel chewed her lip, looking around the room helplessly. "Is the rest of the house in this state?"

Thomas gave an indifferent shrug and continued exploring the kitchen, his hands firmly behind his back. "What are you going to make for supper?"

"I haven't the faintest idea, dear." She grabbed her skirts and twisted the material around her fingers, a nervous childhood gesture she was never able to shake. A familiar sense of panic was setting in her chest, a heavy feeling of dread and uselessness that was almost suffocating. This house was a lost cause. Though she had just met him, she felt safe in saying the same for Mr. Bertrand. She was alone in the world, save for a small child and a husband, many miles away and carrying on perfectly well without her.

Oh, failure and pity. How she hated herself at times.

She leaned against the wall, still tugging at her skirts with one hand. Rubbing her shut eyes gently, she willed her pulse to stop pounding in her ears.

"Mama?" Thomas said curiously.

Isabel opened her eyes.

Thomas was standing on his top-toes and his head had disappeared into a cabinet above him.

"Yes, Tom?"

He withdrew from the cupboard, holding a small bag. "He has currants."

"Wonderful," she said dryly. "I can make poached currants."

"I would eat them, Mama."

Isabel dropped her head to one shoulder and lifted a corner of her mouth, gazing at her son. "I'm being ridiculous, aren't I?"

"Yes," Thomas answered, peering into the cupboard once more.

"Mr. and Mrs. Northing used to bring dozens of guests back to Weatherby Park all the time. They never gave us any notice, but we could always make a king's feast in a matter of hours." She raised a finger to her lips, tapping them gently. Thomas was ignoring her now, she could tell. He was picking more bags and sacks out of the cabinet and setting them on the counter, apparently taking inventory of the kitchen. "And this is just one man. Just one man. He's strange and unfriendly, but he hired me to clean his house and make his food, and I'll be hanged if I can't perform these simple tasks without making myself faint." She thumped her arms to her side and straightened her back, lifting her chin defiantly.

Thomas made a noncommittal noise, looking into a canvas sack with distaste.

"I'll just boil us some currants, then."

"Mama, you should look here."

Isabel walked over to her son and picked up one of the bags he had laid on the counter. Untying the string knotted around the opening, she held it up to the light streaming through the window and looked inside. "Figs?"

Thomas nodded. "There are lots of spices in here, too, Mama." He pointed to a small pile of glass bottles with smudged labels. Salt, pepper, nutmeg, basil. Rooting through the other bags, she found more dried fruit along with nuts, canned vegetables and loaves of stale bread. The other cabinets were also stocked, to her surprise. Potatoes, cheese, dried beef. One cupboard was entirely full of liquor – brandy, whiskey, a few bottles of ale. She sighed at the sight.

Shutting the cupboard door, she turned, hands on her hips, and glanced around the kitchen quickly.

"How about a mincemeat pie, then, Tom?"

Thomas grinned. "That sounds good."

She strode across the room and began selecting various bags from the counter. Try as she might, she couldn't resist the pleased smile that took her mouth. Time to begin.



Balancing the tray on her knee, Isabel gave the door in front of her an awkward knock. Mr. Bertrand hadn't bothered with a tour of the house, and she had spent the past ten minutes carrying his supper from room to room around the house, looking for his study. She heard a muffled creak from inside the room and straightened her back, moving her hand back to the tray. The door swung open and Mr. Bertrand was suddenly before her, irritation etched on the visible side of his face. He was a far cry from the elegant, prim man of two hours ago. His hair was spilling into his face, his usual waistcoat gone and his dress shirt partially untucked. Black streaks – ink, it looked like – ran across his left cheek. The mask, however, was as it always was: hugging the right side of his face as if he'd been born with it.

She stood quietly, waiting to be addressed. Mr. Bertrand simply stared at her, the lines in his face deepening with what she could only assume was annoyance.

"Yes?" he finally snapped, still holding the doorknob.

Isabel glanced at the white knuckles gripping the handle and raised an eyebrow. Bit intense, this one.

"Your supper, sir. As requested."

Mr. Bertrand made an impatient noise and grabbed the tray from Isabel, setting it on a table just inside the room. "Thank you," he said, making to shut the door.

Isabel cleared her throat and he stopped, staring at her with mild surprise.

"It's mincemeat pie, sir. And I made a pot of tea. Something I found in the cupboard."

"Very well," he said, beginning to close the door again.

"Is that all you'll be needing tonight, sir?"

"Yes."

"Very good. Just leave the tray outside your door and I'll take care of it."

"See that you do."

Isabel craned her neck to peek into the room before the door slammed in her face. Brief as her glance was, she could distinctly make out a large piano surrounded by what appeared to be crumpled paper on the floor.

She turned slowly and headed for the stairs, musing to herself. What sort of work, exactly, was Mr. Bertrand involved with? This house, though in need of repair, was large, and despite its distance from town, it was unlikely that it came cheap. She assumed much of the land surrounding the house was Mr. Bertrands', as well, which only increased the cost. The fact that he could afford to pay her five pounds a week was enough to alert her that he was very well-off, but she simply couldn't see what sort of business could be conducted in the middle of the country. Many well-to-do gentlemen owned homes and land far outside of the towns and cities; they were retreats, havens from the hustle and bustle of London. Parties were held there, a full household staff employed at all times. Then the guests left and the master and mistress of the home would go back to town, back to civilization, and the staff would go back to their normal lives of endless cycles of cleaning and cooking. Perhaps Mr. Bertrand did business in London. But he had never mentioned owning another home in town. Of course, she thought with a tone of amusement, he hasn't mentioned much of anything at all.

She started down the stairs slowly, grasping the handrail. The narrow, steep steps creaked menacingly when she gingerly put her weight on them, and she grimaced at the sound. On the third step, she stopped. Turning her head back towards the second floor, she held her breath and listened. Music. A piano, undoubtedly the one she had seen in his study, was playing softly. A melancholy melody, filling the air with a sad sweetness. Isabel turned her whole body on the stairway and sat on the step, resting her head against the wall and closing her eyes.

The music played on for several minutes. Palpable sorrow and longing were wound into those notes, a sense of mournful regret tainting the ethereal sound that invaded Isabel's senses. She wasn't just hearing this music; she was living it, breathing it in. Bitter memories were playing in her mind as she sat there, absorbing this beautiful sadness. Every argument, every disappointment, every moment of hate and pain and betrayal were displayed before her very eyes as she listened. It hurt, this music. It hurt, but she didn't want it to end.

But it did.

She snapped her eyes open. There was nothing but silence coming from the second floor. She stood, going down the steps as quietly as she could. Just before she reached the first floor, she heard a strangled cry from upstairs, followed by a loud crash. She paused, considering if she should go back up, when she heard a door being flung open furiously. Footsteps thundered above her and another door slammed shut, so violently she almost jumped.

She rushed back to the kitchen and leaned heavily on a counter, trying to stop her body from shaking.

"Mama?"

Isabel let out a sharp cry and spun around, looking into the questioning face of her son.

"Darling!" she exclaimed, holding a hand to her heart. "You frightened me!"

"Are you alright, Mama? You look strange."

"I'm perfectly fine, dear. Did you eat your dinner?"

"Yes."

"Good. Why don't you go around the yards and explore for a bit while I clean up?"

"Can I go upstairs?"

"No," she said quickly, her hand slipping to her stomach. "No, you shouldn't go upstairs by yourself."

"Why not?" Thomas asked suspiciously.

"Because you don't know what's up there," she said harshly. "We're not familiar with this house and I'm not comfortable with you gallivanting around it without supervision."

"But we were already up there earlier—"

"Tom, I said no!"

Thomas gazed at his mother, surprise and confusion written on his face.

"Please," Isabel said softly, rubbing her eyes. "Please, Tom, don't go up there alone. Not yet."

"Alright, Mama." He gave her one more bemused look and walked out of the kitchen.

She slid down the counter and held her forehead in her hands. How could something as simple as music make her see parts of her past she had buried in the back of her mind? Memories… bitter, angry memories, most of them. How could music do that?

Passing a hand over her face, she thought about the tundra of emotions that ran through her while he played. The hopelessness, the sense of lost love, the quiet anger. Feelings she didn't even know she possessed.

What sort of man are you?


You know who's cool? My beta. Seriously. He's European. Come on, that's just dandy right there. And thanks to Le Chat Noir for her thoughtful reviews and the pomade.