Thank you for reading!


It was a very great relief when the official word came down that all the visitors were planning to leave. Jane was ready to see what life would be like with Sir William gone. She rather expected nothing would change for a while yet. Lady Sylvia was fundamentally a lazy woman—it would be a while before she decided to be bothered about selling the place. And whoever bought it, unless they decided to turn it into a school or something along those lines, might well appreciate having a staff ready-made that came along with the house.

At the very least, Jane imagined that she and Elizabeth and Mr. Jennings would be the ones tasked with closing the place up. Her particular job was safe for a while yet. And if it wasn't—she had some savings. Enough for … enough for what, really? A small house in the country, bothering with gardens and things? Perhaps not.

No sense in worrying about it. Not just yet. At least now she knew what to do with her savings when she was gone. She had marked it to go to Elizabeth, and if Elizabeth predeceased her, to a children's hospital. But now it would go to Robert Parks, and whenever he received it, she hoped maybe he would guess why. There was a part of her that wanted to tell him now, to have that moment of recognition. But it wouldn't do. It was too late by far, and it wasn't what he wanted. He had what he wanted—his father was dead. He had been avenged. So had she, and so had Elizabeth. So had all the girls in their position over the years. Jane would have to be satisfied with that.

The Merediths and the Nesbitts went first, and the two young men, and then Ivor Novello and those two dreadful American actors. Elsie went with them, taking the dog. Jane imagined Elsie thought she was putting one over on the household by sneaking the dog out, but in fact, it was just what Jane had hoped for. No one else wanted to be bothered with it, poor thing. It interested her to see Elsie ride off with the Americans. Perhaps she would go to America and make films. It seemed quite in keeping with her abilities. Jane wished her well.

In order to keep her hands and her head busy, to keep from hovering wherever she might get a last glimpse of Robert—or be tempted anew to tell him things she shouldn't—Jane hid herself away to sort through the linens.

In the bustle of everyone leaving, she imagined she wouldn't be disturbed, so she was rather surprised when the Countess of Trentham's maid, a fresh-faced Irish girl who would never make a servant, appeared in her doorway.

"You're busy," the girl said, making as if to withdraw again.

"No, no, I was just checking the linen rotation. If I'd have left it to the maids, the same twenty sheets would have been used until they fell into rags." She marked down the set she had just put aside, expecting that the girl had come to say thank you, or drop off a gratuity from the countess, or some such innocuous chore.

Instead, young Miss Trentham shut the door behind her, standing there in silence as if she had something of importance to say.

Jane looked up at her, waiting.

"Why did you do it?" the girl asked.

Some part of Jane had been expecting that. She had recognized something in the girl, some ability to watch people and put things together, that seemed familiar. And there was a relief in someone knowing. But Jane expressed none of that. After holding the girl's gaze for a moment, long enough for both of them to be sure she wasn't going to deny it, she went back to the linens.

"How did you know it was him? Was it the name, or did you see the photograph in his room?"

So, she knew it all. Very clever of her. "Ah, yes, the photograph. It's a miracle that survived. I remember his mother putting it into his blanket. I suppose she—she wanted him to have something of hers." Why she pretended it wasn't true, she wasn't sure. Perhaps she didn't want anyone to see into her that closely. "Does he know what happened to her?"

"They said she died. Just after he was born."

"Well, she didn't die. She gave him away." Jane got up, crossing the room for more linens. It was easier to talk when she couldn't see the girl's face. "He promised the boy would be adopted, he said he knew the family. Turns out we all clung to that dream, all us girls, a better start in life for our children. And all the time he was dumping them, his own children, in that Godforsaken place." She resumed her seat, picking up her pen. "And I believed him," she added. "I suppose it was easier that way. My sister certainly never forgave me for it."

"Your sister?"

"Yes, Mrs. Croft. She's my sister—didn't you know? She kept hers, you see. It was very hard for her. She lost her job, and the baby died anyway. Scarlet fever. I made him take her back, and she never forgave me for that, either."

"But even if Robert is your son, how did you know that he meant to harm his father?"

So. There it was. Out in the open. Jane looked up at the girl, almost glad for the chance to explain. "What gift do you think a good servant has that separates them from the others? The gift of anticipation. And I'm a good servant. I'm better than good. I'm the best—I'm the perfect servant. I know when they'll be hungry, and the food is ready. I know when they'll be tired, and the bed is turned down. I know it before they know it themselves."

The girl sat with that for a moment. It wasn't an explanation, not really, but Jane imagined this girl who spoke of her son by his first name, as though she knew him, understood.

At last Miss Trentham asked, "Are you going to tell him?"

"Why? What purpose would it possibly serve?"

"What if they find out what happened?"

"Not much of a crime to stab a dead man, is it? They can never touch him. That's what's important—his life."

"And your life?"

Jane got to her feet again, to get more linens. Without looking at the girl, she said, "Didn't you hear me? I'm the perfect servant. I have no life."

Before Miss Trentham could say anything more, a knock came at the other door of the room and George opened it, telling the girl, "Her Ladyship's leaving now, miss."

The girl looked at Jane, who looked back, waiting. Calmly, she said, "Well, you should go now, Miss Trentham."

Slowly, Miss Trentham turned and left without another word. No, she'd never make a servant in the long run. She was too curious.

Lord and Lady Stockbridge were also leaving, and with them, Robert Parks. Jane was certain she would never see him again. He wouldn't want to stay a servant—he had only taken the job to get into proximity with his father, and now that was over. She felt—strangely, she felt sure she was going to cry. Something she rarely did, but when the tears came they were unstoppable.

In the hall on the way to her room, she ran into Dorothy, thanking her for her help with Mr. Jennings last night.

"You don't have to thank me," Dorothy told her. "You know I'd kill for Mr. Jennings if I had to."

In her doorway, Jane stopped to look at her. Yes, she probably would. What there was in Mr. Jennings to inspire that kind of devotion, Jane wasn't sure … but then, she had allowed herself to be swept off her feet by Sir William McCordle, so who was she to judge?

Turning away from Dorothy without a word, she shut the door behind her and sank onto her bed, letting the tears come, the grief for a life that could have been and the love of a son who would never know her.

The door opened, and she looked up, surprised to see Elizabeth there. Her sister closed the door, saying, "Don't cry, Jane. They'll hear you."

Jane smothered her sobs with a hand over her mouth, her other arm wrapping around her waist against the spasms that shook her as she tried to hold her tears back.

"Come on," Elizabeth said, not unkindly, as she approached the bed. "You did what you thought was best for him at the time. I see that now." She sat down next to Jane.

"Lizzie," Jane whispered. She hadn't used that name in so long. "I've lost everything. I've lost him; now he'll never know me. My boy. Oh, my boy!"

Lizzie put a hand gently across Jane's back. "At least your boy's alive. He's alive. That's what matters."

Jane took her sister's face in her hands, feeling anew the grief for Lizzie's child, for the loss of the life she might have had, and the years of loneliness with they two had been nothing but strangers. And they held each other while Jane got herself under control, sisters again.

Perhaps it had all been for this, to bring them back together. Perhaps it had been for Robert Parks, to give him a chance at the life Jane had always wanted him to have. Perhaps, in the end, it had been for Jane herself.