Eliza waved the concern away. “If you start curtsying, I’ll have to find a new matron, and you know how hard it is to train them.”
Mrs. Everett managed a weak laugh. “I did not wish to presume upon your new station, My Lady.”
“Then presume away, Mrs. Everett. I am only myself here.”
The matron’s face softened. “The children have missed you.”
“Then let’s see to breakfast before they riot.”
In the dining hall, Eliza took up a ladle and served the porridge herself, filling the bowls of children who queued up in states ranging from bashful to feral. She ruffled hair, bent to listen to secrets, mediated two squabbles, and congratulated a stammering boy for spelling ‘catarrh’ correctly in a spelling contest (though she was privately certain he’d made up the word).
She spotted him at the end of the table: a frail boy, perhaps six years old, with hair stuck flat to his skull and eyes so bright they seemed to shine through the fever. He coughed then attempted to lift his spoon, but his hand trembled so violently that he nearly upended the bowl. The child did not complain or whimper—just set his jaw and tried again.
Eliza made her way down the line then knelt beside him. “Good morning, John.”
He regarded her with grave solemnity, the way only the truly ill can. “Good morning, Miss,” he whispered.
She smiled, took the spoon, and stirred the porridge to cool it. “Would you like to hear a story?”
He nodded.
She fed him a spoonful then began: “Once, there was a boy who lived in a house made entirely of spoons…”
For five minutes, she told the story, feeding him one spoonful for every sentence. He ate with the dazed patience of the very sick, never taking his eyes off her face. At the end, when the bowl was empty, he said, “Thank you,” and set his head on the table, exhausted.
Mrs. Everett watched from the doorway, eyes damp. “That is more food than he’s taken in a week, My Lady. You are a miracle worker.”
Eliza stood, her knees creaking in protest. “It is all Mrs. Finch’s honey, I assure you.”
They finished breakfast with minimal casualties and maximal mess. When the children were sent out for lessons, Eliza rolled up her sleeves and helped clear the tables, wash the bowls, andwrangle two of the older girls into scrubbing the worst of the sticky patches from the benches.
It was only as she was hanging her apron by the door that the magnitude of the morning caught up to her. She had not thought of Wildmoore Hall, or August or the relentless machinery of her new life for two full hours. Here, she was useful, invisible, and entirely at peace.
She left as the sun broke through, lighting the lane in sudden gold. She walked back more slowly, savoring the silence.
When she returned, Mrs. Finch was waiting in the entry hall.
“My Lady,” Mrs. Finch said, “a note has arrived. Urgent by the look of it. From London.”
Eliza took the tray, noting the familiar hand. The address was written with the looping confidence of a woman who had never been denied anything in her life.
“Thank you, Mrs. Finch.”
The housekeeper lingered. “You have mud on your hem and a…” she made a vague gesture at Eliza’s hair, “… something.”
Eliza brushed at her head, discovering a smear of porridge on her temple. She laughed, genuine and unguarded. “Tell no one?”
Mrs. Finch’s lips twitched. “I am not in the business of passing information, My Lady.”
Alone, Eliza broke the seal. The message inside was brief:
The Marchioness of Wilhampton requests the pleasure of the Marchioness of Barrington’s company for tea at two o’clock at her townhouse on Cavendish Square.
—A.M.W.
Eliza reread the note then set it aside, pulse speeding. What could Lady Wilhampton possibly want with her and why summon her like a servant?
Thirteen