“I’m sure,” Mouse said, mentally cursing Old Tom for taking so bloody long to arrive. The last thing she wanted was a lecture on the foresight of her uncle.
“However, no matter which way I look at it, Lord Dewhurst’s decision regarding the future of Thistlemarsh makes no sense to me.”
Mouse flushed. “You think he should have just sold it off before he died, then?”
Dawson drew back, stung, which Mouse thought was unfair. What right did he have to be offended?
“It makes no sense to me,” he continued, “that his lordship would not just leave Thistlemarsh to you and your brother.”
She jolted, and Dawson looked down to the floor, his eyes focused on a warped bubble in the wood.
“I know I have not always been good to you. I am ashamed of myself for it, but I lacked the opportunity and, perhaps, courage to apologize to you until now. So, although it is too late, I am sorry. You deserved better from all of us.”
Mouse wasn’t sure how to respond.
“Here I am, choosing the coward’s path again and leaving you to do this alone, but the idea of working for Carlyle is just too much to bear.”
“I do have a month to try. Carlyle does not own the place yet.” When Mouse spoke, her voice was sharp as cut glass.
The butler flinched, his eyes darting to hers. “Yes, well. I wish you the best of luck in all of it.” He held out his hand. Mouse stared at it for a moment, uncomprehending, before she realized he was looking for a handshake.
“Where are you going?” she asked, ignoring his extended hand. It dropped to his side.
“I’m not quite sure yet, to be honest. The pension that Lord Dewhurst provided will cover my living expenses, and I have saved a bit on the side. I am too old to butler elsewhere, even if there were openings. My sister suggested I might open a shop in my home village. Perhaps a tearoom.”
Mouse hummed. A horn blared from the drive. She helped Dawson with his bags; there were only two, and they were light enough that she could carry them one-handed. So little, for an entire life within Thistlemarsh’s walls.
When they finished packing everything onto the back of the car, Dawson dipped into a stiff bow, which Mouse mirrored with a curtsy.
He folded his large frame into the back seat. The engine started, and Mouse nodded at Old Tom, who tipped his hat to her. The butler turned away, his focus staunchly ahead. Silver glimmered in the corner of his eye.
“Dawson!” Mouse shouted as the car started to pull out. His headsnapped toward her. Mouse flicked her eyes across his face. “I could see you in a tea shop, but only as long as you have an entire army of bakers or servers to command.”
The surprise ebbed from his eyes, and the corners of his mouth flicked. For the first time in her life, Mouse saw him truly smile.
Despite Mouse’s anxiety about being alone in Thistlemarsh, the emptiness was pleasant. No one was there to worry about or tiptoe around. Still, she stroked the edge ofBlakeney’s, comforted by its weight in her pocket.
She set to work in the lounge. Mouse watered down some baking soda to attempt to scrub the lounge wall. She used cut-up livery to clean, as the rags in the laundry were worn through.
At first, the amount of grime she stripped from the wall was encouraging, if revolting. However, the more she lifted away, the more deterioration she revealed. Entire chunks of plaster came away with disintegrating wallpaper. Through the holes, she could see the beams leading up to the ceiling, and dead bugs and mice droppings lined the crevices.
Repressing her panic, she started on the furniture. The shift did nothing to lift her spirits. The upholstery was frayed to the point that Mouse could not make out the original patterns. Yellowed stuffing stuck out of split seams, mold ate through the couch legs, and as Mouse worked, the floorboards bowed under her weight.
Soon, she found herself in the middle of the room, overcome with dread. The lounge looked worse than when she started, and it was only a fraction of Thistlemarsh’s repairs.
She buried her face in her hands, her heart throbbing in her throat. If she had a year, she could not fix all of this, and she only had a month.
“What am I going to do?” she whispered.
No one answered. The house was empty.
John had not been able to find anyone in the village to help with the bigger interior work. The best builders were gone, as he suspected, and those left were unwilling to take on the job. Mouse’s conviction that she could do nothing without the help of a miracle grew.
Or Faerie magic, a voice inside her head whispered. She quickly squashed the voice down as she threw herself out into the garden.
In a way, the garden was worse. Mouse could see Mr.Hobb’s efforts in trimming back the bushes and the sprouting flowers, but it was the kind of desperate work one does when they are both overwhelmed and directionless.
“Forgive me, Miss Mouse,” Mr.Hobb said when he joined her on the grounds, his cap pressed flat between his hands. “I should have done a better job of maintaining things.”