Within five minutes of my tour with Jane, I became aware of her insistent need to be the center of attention. She was nice in a feigned manner, clutching onto your arm constantly and whispering into your ear as if you were her longest childhood friend. I ignored it the best I could and took in the house.
We were shown the laundry room and how to carry the coal for the house, a task that my mother and I would have to do together. We were also shown where to hang the laundry and how to access the food pantry. I nodded the whole time, trusting my mother to know what to do because I was not used to this kind of work.
She then led us around the rest of the house. It was a two-story with a staircase on the right side of the foyer that led to all the family bedrooms. The ground level held a small-sitting room in the back, the servant's (now to be mine and my mum's) quarters, the main room, a small ballroom, and a large kitchen. The style of the house was magnificently beautiful in the way it was arranged. There was an illusion of spaciousness, even in the rooms that were smaller, due to the light colors and large windows. The upholstery was a perfect parity of plenty of white and cream-colored patterns, set off every once in a while by the richest red or purple silk. The curtains were white and thin, giving each room an unimposing feel. All the furniture was of the deepest and smoothest mahogany, which made me hesitate to touch it.
Even having only known Mrs. Holmes for a few moments, I had no doubt in my mind that it was her decorating skill on display. There was an elegant but simple beauty about it that reminded me of her.
I was led through a quick, rambling, and sometimes incomprehensible list of my duties as my mum and I were led out the back. We stood on a large porch that held a swinging bench and looked out at the grounds. There was a great patch of clearing and a trail that led into the orchard. I could see a row of artificial beehives through the line of neatly planted trees.
Jane followed my gaze. "We collect honey to sell in town. Occasionally, we even sell the bees themselves to other apiarists." She must have noticed my look of worry. She laughed gently at me, "Have no fear, they won't bother you. Mr. Holmes takes care of all that business. We have nothing to do with the bees. Well, Sherlock spends some time out with them doing who knows what, and we eat the occasional jar of honey with our toast, but beyond that, we won't be asking you to collect anything."
I nodded, trying to temper just how relieved I looked. My mom was smiling at me. Jane took us a bit further down the path. I could hear the steady hum of the bees in the distance. A half-finished gate was the only barrier between the house and the foliage, and a young man stood by one of the posts, looking at it dejectedly.
Jane gripped my arm and smiled, "Oh, that's James. He is the gamekeeper." She started to lead us down the steps, intent that we meet him. "He also does odd jobs around the grounds when we allow he is capable. Though, that fence has been half-standing for way too many months." He shielded his eyes as we neared and Jane called out his name. He watched us approach.
Reaching the gamekeeper, I was able to observe him close up. He was fine-looking; blonde with soft brown eyes that crinkled around the sides when he smiled at me. Dressed in outdoor clothes, he had a rugged appearance that was appealing.
His eyes locked onto me as we shook hands and did not leave my face as he was introduced to my mum.
"So have you started your duties yet, or have you been given a moment or two to get used to all the oddities of the house?" He was smiling in that way that men do when they want you to think they're charming.
"I would not know so much about that. Everyone seems perfectly nice so far," I demurred, made nervous by his obvious interest in me.
He laughed over my head at Jane, and she giggled back. "You are very polite. That is an attractive quality in a young woman."
I tried to ignore the vaguely smug look that settled on the young lady's face as if I had asked for the attention.
I clamped my mouth shut and my mother spoke up, "It is a very desirable quality, young man, especially in the hired help." She may have been half-blind, but she was no fool, she knew he was attempting to engage me.
"Well," Jane started to pull me away, "we must be going back in now. It is getting dark soon, and they must be very tired from their train ride." James bowed slightly to her but kept his eyes on me.
"By the way," he finally tore that warm gaze from me and regarded Jane, "I am having a dreadful time with this fence. I keep hitting hard soil. Perhaps Mr. Holmes could look into finding someone who could help me decipher where these patches are?"
Jane shook her head dismissively, all the while turning both of us around to depart. "Just ask Sherlock. You know he could help you."
"He would not mind?"
Jane turned her back to him as she shrugged, and we made our way back to the house.
By the end of our first working day, I was quite certain we would be let go. We rose at six in the morning and quickly realized it we had not risen early enough to complete all the chores we needed to finish before the house was awake.
I burned the toast for breakfast and was late in airing out the rooms and starting the fireplaces. We were saved a bit by the fact that Jane had left to visit the Valley Gardens with some acquaintances, and the master of the house evidently made sporadic appearances at the family table. The lady of the house and her son weren't fussy and made no comment on our numerous mistakes.
The master of the house was not so forgiving. Due to the mistiming of our daily tasks, I found myself in his office, cleaning the hearth to start a fire much later than I should have been. He entered while I was on my knees, my apron, and likely much of my person, covered in soot.
I rose and curtsied, feeling flustered at being in the sudden presence of a stranger.
If I had thought the son was intimidating, his father surpassed him on a much more visceral level. The look he leveled at me upon noticing me was nothing sort of absolute disgust and distrust. He was tall, like his son, but gaunt in a severe, stressed way. It was merely a gut feeling, but I was sure this man would not be above striking me if I provoked him.
"You aren't meant to be in here," he told me, dropping his notebook on his desk. I knew he had been outside with his bees all day.
"I'm sorry, sir. I should have tended to your room earlier-"
"No, you are not supposed to be in here at all. I can handle my own affairs. Did that wife of mine fail to inform you of the full scope of your duties?"
I stammered, feeling trapped between defending myself and appearing to point blame at the lady of the house.
"Close your mouth, young lady," he brushed me off irritably, waving me away. "Do not enter my rooms again. I do not wish to punish you, but I will." He lit a cigarette and circled his desk to take his seat.
I curtsied again. "Of course, sir. I apologize. I'll bring you your tea straight away."
"No," he stopped me, "I make all my own food."
I paused, confused. "You make all your own food, sir?" I echoed as if unable to stop myself from speaking.
He looked at me like I had just grown two heads. "Of course. It's the only way to avoid poisons and unknown ingredients being slipped into one's meals and drinks."
I stood stupidly even though my mind was pressing me to simply take my leave. "You believe someone is trying to poison you, sir?"
"I don't believe, I know." He leaned back and blew out a stream of smoke, peering intently at me through narrowed eyes. "So keep that in mind."
I could not tell if I was being threatened, but it was at that moment that I began to suspect that the master was perhaps not well.
Finally listening to my better sense, I simply nodded obediently, as if taking his warning very seriously, and excused myself.
When I exited, the son was standing at the landing, dressed to go out. He seemed to have been loitering, and I wondered if he had been listening to my strange interaction with his father.
I wanted to ask him to clarify what his father meant by these unusual requests but could not find the courage to speak.
He merely tipped his hat at me and descended the stairs as if he had been only passing by.