CHAPTER 5.
Colonel Joseph Westin Havelock III was an eighty-year-old former British Army officer who spoke ten languages, demanded I address him as “Colonel,” and resented the fact I needed at least six hours of sleep a night. The first time we were introduced, he threatened to send me back to London because he didn’t like my dress.
“Where did you get that hideous sackcloth?” he demanded, not realizing I purchased it at a secondhand shop. “Did your mother make that? Is she blind?”
“My mother is dead,” I answered flatly, refusing to be cowed by his spite. “And this gown is used, sir.”
“It shows. And please address me as I requested.”
“Yes, s-Colonel.”
“You’ll wear a uniform,” he decided, as if deriding my paltry wardrobe wasn’t enough. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Anson?”
“We’ll see what we can do,” Mr. Anson replied with a shake of his head. “A uniform shouldn’t be hard to find and tailored to her size.”
“Never mind the fitting!” Colonel Havelock snapped irately, determined to show Mr. Anson who was in charge. “Just throw the thing at her and show the girl to her room. Do I have to do everything myself?”
“No, sir.” Mr. Anson turned to me. “This way, miss.”
I dutifully followed behind, thoughtful yet hurt by the unprovoked attack. “Is he always like that?”
Mr. Anson laughed softly, surprising me. I thought he had no sense of humor. “You were fortunate. It means he likes you. It bodes well for your future employment.”
“Likes me?” I repeated incredulously. “He nearly bit my head off!”
“That’s his way,” Mr. Anson said over his shoulder, instructing me to avoid the corridor on the right. “You will avoid that area when you pass by.” He nodded toward the gate. “There was a fire some years ago. The structure is not safe.”
“A fire? When?”
“Shortly before the colonel was born. His father died in the flames.”
“That’s awful.”
“He thought so.”
I cast one last furtive glance at the wrought-iron gate and continued on my way.
Mr. Anson led me to the kitchen, where Mrs. Hutchins stood sweating over an enormous pot. She eyed me with pity, a common theme in my life. There were no other servants around, much to my disappointment. I had hoped Mr. Anson was mistaken when he said I was responsible for everything. “This is Miss Gibson,” he said, making the introductions. “Mrs. Hutchins usually makes a roast chicken on Friday so the colonel can have his soup on Saturday.”
“Will I be making that? You said cold dishes only.”
“The broth only needs a slight warming in the pan.”
He led me to a small room I assumed was the scullery and instructed me to rifle through the pile of laundry. “We send out the heavier loads,” he explained. “But you will be responsible for ironing bedsheets and table linens.”
“That’s all right, I suppose.” My hands found a gray wool maid’s uniform. I found the matching white cap and apron beneath a moldering pile of pillowcases. I took a tentative whiff and held the gown from me as if it carried the plague. “It needs washing,” I muttered.
“Then wash it. Your own gown will do until Monday.”
Leaving the gown to be washed later, I followed him out of the kitchen and down a servant’s corridor. “There are more just like these that connect with various wings,” he said, showing me an entry point. There was a door hidden in the paneling. “You’ll use them to find your way through the house. It’s more efficient.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You will be given a map. I highly suggest studying it in your spare time.”
“You sound as if I’ll get lost.”
Mr. Anson smiled brittlely. “It has happened from time to time. Mostly to those who failed to study the map.”
“Will I have leisure time?” I blurted when we passed the library.
Mr. Anson halted and nearly sent me crashing into him. “Leisure time?” he repeated as if I had just slandered his mother. “Whatever for?”
“Er… I-I like to study in my spare time,” I stammered, horribly embarrassed for asking.
“Then do so. But I doubt the colonel will approve.”
“Won’t I be reading to him at night? You said the library would be at my disposal”
“The colonel is quite capable of reading to himself, Miss Gibson. You will only read to him if he requests it.” Mr. Anson pried open a door and led me to a part of the house where the air was distinctly colder and musty. “These are the servant’s quarters,” he said, fishing out a skeleton key. “You may have your choice of the rooms. Just be sure to leave your door ajar. The bell system is rigged for the kitchen only.”
“Then why not show me a room closer to the colonel?” I asked, staring miserably at a door that probably hadn’t been opened in years. “I do not mind sleeping in a smaller room.”
“You’ll have to take that up with the colonel.” Mr. Anson grunted, struggling with the lock. “He’s not fond of the help sleeping nearby. You understand.”
“I’m beginning to,” I mumbled. “Wh-where are you going?” I cried when he stopped what he was doing and turned to leave.
He shook out his hand, having cut himself. “I brought the wrong key,” he sighed. “Wait here. I shan’t be a moment.”
“But—”
I jiggled the knob, wishing the door would somehow transport me back to London. I was not happy with my new position, having found Colonel Havelock to be boorish and utterly profane. From the first moment I spied Briarwood, I had been overcome with a dreadful sense of foreboding. Upon entry, the feeling had intensified until my stomach felt as though knotted by a giant hand.
“Now what?” I said, hugging myself as I waited for Mr. Anson to return. The door was one of many along a U-shaped wing. It felt detached from the rest of the house. Like me. I quickly grew bored and began counting the number of doors I saw. “One…. Two… Three…”
“... Four!”
The voice was not mine.
I whirled about, every hair I owned standing up on end. “Wh-who’s there?” I called shakily, thinking Mrs. Hutchins was having one on me. “Mr. Anson…? Is that you?”
“Is ‘what’ me?” Mr. Anson grumbled, out of breath and visibly annoyed. He shooed me away from the door. “You’re looking rather pale, Miss Gibson. Perhaps you should lie down.” He inserted the lock in the lock and turned the knob. A distinct odor of rotten meat suddenly assailed my nostrils, inducing nausea so severe, I promptly headed back to the kitchen.
Mrs. Hutchins was kind enough to lend me a tarnished bread pan to be sick in, after which I apologized profusely. “No need to, dearie,” she said kindly. “We’ve all been there.”
Wiping my face with a damp cloth, I explained it was the stench of rotten meat that made me ill. “Do the rooms always smell like that?”
“Rotten meat?” she repeated, blinking in befuddlement. “There be no rotten meat around me kitchen.”
“But the odor was most… offensive,” I said, stumbling over my words when it became apparent she did not believe me. “It must have been something I ate.”
She nodded, taking the ruined bread pan with her. “I was going to toss it out, anyway.”
I sat down at the table, wondering if living in London all those months did something to my sense of smell. The city was quite filthy, despite the city’s attempts at sanitation. Horses defecated in the street, likewise stray dogs and cats. Many a day I’d had to keep the windows shut because of the acrid stench of burning coal and sewage. Finding no cause for the odor, I reluctantly returned to Mr. Anson, who turned on me with a scowl.
“What was that?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” I mumbled, absolutely mortified. He had stripped the bed and opened the windows to air out the room. “Would you like some… help?”
“I’m not staying,” he grunted, piling the sheets and quilt on the floor. “Take those to the scullery. There are fresh linens in the hall pantry. Down the hall on your right.” He wiped his hands on a rag, tucking it into his back pocket. “I will return for supper. We eat in the kitchen. Until then, I suggest you make up the bed and tell Mrs. Hutchins what you need. Just give her a list and she’ll purchase the items next time she’s in the village. Those will be deducted from your salary as well.”
“What about the colonel?”
“Colonel Havelock has all he requires,” Mr. Anson replied airily. “Mrs. Hutchins prepares a tray for breakfast and luncheon. You will carry the tray up to his room and leave it on his bedside table. He will do the rest.”
“If he can take care of himself, then why am I needed?”
Mr. Anson gave me a curious look and just before he left, said the strangest thing.
“He doesn’t like to be alone.”
