4
In the morning, Mouse found that Thistlemarsh’s state was even worse than she imagined. Determined to make some headway before the servants woke, she tied her hair back, pulled on Bertie’s old trousers, and set to work. A voice in the back of her mind, perhaps her sense, insisted that the attempt was a fruitless endeavor, but she had to try.
The entry hall was the key place to start, as it was the most visible to visitors, including Beckett when he returned. It would be easier to assess the amount of work needed after she began. She decided she would start cleaning first and see the damage that was revealed.
Mouse fashioned a rag from a worn-out curtain and a bucket from the Matchbox’s vanity water basin. She hoped that the proper cleaning supplies were still stored in the servant quarters, although her expectations were low and she did not want to lose daylight searching for things that did not exist. If her uncle had allotted money to refresh them, Dawson would certainly have used it to combat the crumbling walls. Even before Mouse left for France, she overheard the servants muttering that her uncle had slashed the money from the householdaccounts, leaving them scrambling to save a house with no resources. After Bertie’s death, it was as if Lord Dewhurst had wanted the house to rot.
Despite her intentions, by the time Dawson brought in a plate of sandwiches for lunch, all she’d managed to do was clear the dirt from a strip of wallpaper. The figures in the tapestry opposite her seemed to laugh as she worked, the baying dogs and Faeries all ridiculing her from their vantage point in the thread.
“Watch if I don’t set you on fire next,” she growled at the fabric.
Dawson eyed her warily. “There is a visitor for you. I found him skulking around the servants’ entrance, and I’ve taken the liberty of escorting him to Lord Dewhurst’s study.”
“Who is it?” Mouse asked, puzzled why Dawson let the man in, rather than calling the police on the trespasser.
“Mr.Carlyle.”
The air felt heavy, and Mouse’s vision tunneled around the edges. She suddenly felt like her nickname-sake, small and vulnerable. A snake waited for her in her uncle’s study, coiled and preparing to strike.
“Carlyle?” she repeated.
“Yes. It took me a moment to recognize him. He looks different from his school days, although he only visited that once. He is still impertinent as anything, and his manners are nothing compared to Master Bertie’s, but I did not feel that I could turn him away given his current relation to the house.”
Mouse fought back her panic. She looked down in dismay at the state of her clothes, stained with sweat and dust. Wisps of cigar smoke hung in the room, leading down the hall.
Dawson stood at Mouse’s shoulder, his fists balled tight. She knew what stress looked like on a man. She had seen her fair share of it in the war.
Dawson might disapprove of Mouse, but his dislike of Carlyle was stronger.
His knuckles were white, and Mouse noticed his twice-mended cuffs. When was the last time her uncle had replaced the staff uniforms? she wondered.
“My lady,” Dawson said. “You look unwell.”
“I will be fine in a moment, Dawson. Thank you.”
He straightened and turned to lead her to the door but paused halfway down the hall.
“Would you like me to stand outside the door while you talk to him, my lady?”
Relief flooded Mouse. She nodded sharply. Words caught and dried in her mouth, but she took his clenched hand, squeezing it hard. Dawson coughed uncomfortably, but he did not pull away. It was pleasant to be allies with the old man, for once.
The Honorable Anthony Carlyle had a razor-sharp smile. It instantly caught Mouse off guard, even when she expected its painful slash. He wore his mustache combed into a thin line, and his hair slicked back into a wave that ended behind his ears. His fingers drummed a steady rhythm against her uncle’s desk. He’d propped his ostentatious cane against the chairback. Mouse wanted to smirk at the cane, since it was such a predictable show of Carlyle’s mask of pretentious aristocracy. Who, except the most out of touch, would carry a symbolic cane now when there were so many men who truly needed one to walk?
“I see you have made yourself comfortable here,” Mouse said.
“Shame that your uncle left you all this work. This task is impossible,” Carlyle said.
“I’m afraid that I do not understand you. What is impossible?”
“Come now. There is no need to play games with me. Mr.Beckett is an old friend of my father’s and likes his drink as much as any other man in town. He was only too happy to share when I pointed out that it would all come to me anyway. Why delay the inevitable?”
Mouse strangled the bottom of her shirt tight in her hands, overly aware of the streaks of dust across Bertie’s old trousers.
Out of the corner of her eye, Mouse saw a flash of movement in the window behind the desk. Was it Dawson? She thought he was behind the door.
“I see that we are not going to have a civil discussion about any of this, so I will say my piece and leave you to your thoughts. I am willing to buy Thistlemarsh from you.”
Mouse scoffed, realizing too late that she’d done it aloud. Carlyle’s smile sharpened more.