None of which she had appreciated during her time spent at Hartsmere.
“I do not believe that managing the household will be my only concern here, Aunt,” Eden said quietly. Speaking it aloud made it real: She would be, for at least a little while, mistress and lady of this place. She would have duties and responsibilities to her tenants and servants and laborers. Duties that had been sorely neglected—by Spencer and her—for half a decade.
“If you refer to the poor state of the cottages,” Claudia said, “we know that your father’s steward failed in his charge. Spencer should have replaced him. You cannot expect to undo five years of inadequate management in a few months.”
But Papa gave this estate to me and I should have known. I should have made it my business to know.
Just as I should have realized the truth about my son.
The carriage passed through the gate and over the graveled drive that crossed the park. In Eden’s imagination, the trees held naked limbs skyward in a prayer for salvation.
Hartsmere loomed above them as the berline drew around the sweep in front of the porch. The house was deceptively plain, for a former Fleming had attempted to modernize the Elizabethan hulk with an eighteenth-century facade. But that effort could not conceal what waited inside: the vast, cold hall, dark paneled wood, narrow passages, a confusion of chambers in the two wings, and a complete lack of modern conveniences.
A handful of servants waited before the porch, barely suppressing their shivers. They wore dusty, ill-fitting livery and well-worn dresses. Could this be the entire remaining staff?
“Only a pair of maids,” Claudia remarked. “I suppose that gray-haired woman is your housekeeper. As for the men, none has sufficient presence for a butler, though the one in livery must be a footman. And that pair of ruffians must be gardeners or stablemen.” She shook her head. “This is much worse than the solicitor led us to expect.”
“Surely some of the servants must be inside,” Eden said, trying to lighten both their moods. “At least we have a welcome of sorts, after this dismal journey.”
Claudia arched her brow but made no further comment.
When the berline came to a stop, the lanky footman loped up to open the door and offer his hand to Claudia. She took it and stepped down, surreptitiously brushing off her skirts. Eden followed. Her nostrils were immediately assaulted by the smell of dampness, mold, and decay.
The two maids curtsied, and the housekeeper came forward, her hands folded over her waist.
“Lady Eden,” she said. “Praise be that you’ve come safely to Hartsmere.” She bowed her head, but her gray eyes were shrewd and sharp in the mild, wrinkled face. Her words held more than the trace of an accent.
Irish, Eden thought. I do not remember her.
“My name is Byrne, my lady. Mrs. Nuala Byrne. I’m sorry for this poor greeting, but there are few of us here now. The cook, Mrs. Beaton, is inside making up something for your dinner, and a pot of tea to take the chill off.”
Claudia regarded Mrs. Byrne with a calculated stare that always put upstarts and mushrooms in their places. “I trust that you have rooms made up for us, Mrs. Byrne?”
“Aye, indeed, my lady. I hope they’ll be to your satisfaction.” Her gaze shifted to Eden. “I hadn’t the honor of meeting Lord Bradwell. Mr. Brown, the steward, took me on when Mrs. Outhwaite left three months ago.”
Eden felt as if she were being examined from head to toe. If Claudia had hoped to cow this woman’s boldness, she hadn’t succeeded. But Papa had always said that the folk of the dales—like the Irish—were too independent and proud to bow and scrape to any “outcomer” lady or lord. They waited to be impressed.
“I am pleased to meet you, Mrs. Byrne,” Eden said. On impulse, she decided to try informality. She would need loyal servants at Hartsmere. “I’m sure we shall rub along very well together.”
Mrs. Byrne hesitated, and then a cautious smile touched her lips. “Aye, my lady. Armstrong will carry up your luggage, and Nancy will wait upon you. Hester will serve you, Lady Claudia.”