Anna started on the long approach to Ravenhill Abbey, her confidence fading the closer she got. That front entrance was simply too imposing. She hesitated a moment when she neared the Abbey, then veered around the corner. Just past the corner, she saw the servants’ entrance. This door, too, was tall and double, but at least she didn’t have to mount granite steps to reach it. Taking a deep breath, she tugged on the big brass knob and walked directly into the huge kitchen.
A large woman with white-blond hair stood at a massive central table. She kneaded dough, her arms elbow-deep in an earthenware bowl the size of a kettle. Strands of hair came down from the bun at the top of her head and stuck to the sweat on her red cheeks. The only other people in the room were a scullery maid and a bootblack boy. All three turned to stare at her.
The fair-haired woman—surely the cook?—held up floury arms. “Aye?”
Anna raised her chin. “Good morning. I’m the earl’s new secretary, Mrs. Wren. Do you know where Mr. Hopple might be?”
Without taking her eyes from Anna, the cook yelled to the bootblack boy, “You there, Danny. Go and fetch Mr. Hopple and tell him Mrs. Wren is here in the kitchen. Be quick, now.”
Danny dashed out of the kitchen, and the cook turned back to her dough.
Anna stood waiting.
The scullery maid by the massive fireplace stared, absently scratching her arm. Anna smiled at her. The girl quickly averted her eyes.
“Ain’t never heard of a lady secretary before.” The cook kept her eyes on her hands, swiftly working the dough. She expertly flipped the whole mass onto the table and rolled it into a ball, the muscles on her forearms flexing. “Have you met his lordship, then?”
“We’ve never been introduced,” Anna said. “I discussed the position with Mr. Hopple, and he had no qualms about me becoming the earl’s secretary.” At least Mr. Hopple hadn’t voiced any qualms, she added mentally.
The cook grunted without looking up. “That’s just as well.” She rapidly pinched off walnut-sized bits of dough and rolled them into balls. A pile formed. “Bertha, fetch me that tray.”
The scullery maid brought over a cast-iron tray and lined up the balls on it in rows. “Gives me the chilly trembles, he does, when he shouts,” she whispered.
The cook cast a jaundiced eye on the maid. “The sound of hoot owls gives you the chilly trembles. The earl’s a fine gentleman. Pays us all a decent wage and gives us regular days off, he does.”
Bertha bit her lower lip as she carefully positioned each ball. “He’s got a terrible sharp tongue. Perhaps that’s why Mr. Tootleham left so—” She seemed to realize the cook was glaring at her and abruptly shut her mouth.
Mr. Hopple’s entrance broke the awkward silence. He wore an alarming violet waistcoat, embroidered all over with scarlet cherries.
“Good morning, good morning, Mrs. Wren.” He darted a glance at the watching cook and scullery maid and lowered his voice. “Are you quite sure, er, about this?”
“Of course, Mr. Hopple.” Anna smiled at the steward in what she hoped was a confident manner. “I am looking forward to making the acquaintance of the earl.”
She heard the cook humph behind her.
“Ah.” Mr. Hopple coughed. “As to that, the earl has journeyed to London on business. He often spends his time there, you know,” he said in a confiding tone. “Meeting with other learned gentlemen. The earl is quite an authority on agricultural matters.”
Disappointment shot through her. “Shall I wait for his return?” she asked.
“No, no. No need,” Mr. Hopple said. “His lordship left some papers for you to transcribe in the library. I’ll just show you there, shall I?”
Anna nodded and followed the steward out of the kitchen and up the back stairs into the main hallway. The floor was pink and black marble parquet, beautifully inlaid, although a bit hard to see in the dim light. They came to the main entrance, and she stared at the grand staircase. Good Lord, it was huge. The stairs led up to a landing the size of her kitchen and then parted into two staircases arching away into the dark upper floors. How on earth did one man rattle around in such a house, even if he did have an army of servants?
Anna became aware that Mr. Hopple was speaking to her.
“The last secretary and, of course, the one before him worked in their own study under the stairs,” the little man said. “But the room there is rather bleak. Not at all fitting a lady. So I thought it best that you be set up in the library where the earl works. Unless,” Mr. Hopple inquired breathlessly, “you would prefer to have a room of your own?”
The steward turned to the library and held the door for Anna. She walked inside and then stopped suddenly, forcing Mr. Hopple to step around her.
“No, no. This will do very nicely.” She was amazed at how calm her voice sounded. So many books! They lined three sides of the room, marching around the fireplace and extending to the vaulted ceiling. There must be over a thousand books in this room. A rather rickety ladder on wheels stood in the corner, apparently for the sole purpose of putting the volumes within reach. Imagine owning all these books and being able to read them whenever one fancied.
Mr. Hopple led her to a corner of the cavernous room where a massive, mahogany desk stood. Opposite it, several feet away, was a smaller, rosewood desk.
“Here we are, Mrs. Wren,” he said enthusiastically. “I’ve set out everything I think you might need: paper, quills, ink, wipers, blotting paper, and sand. This is the manuscript the earl would like copied.” He indicated a four-inch stack of untidy paper. “There is a bellpull in the far corner, and I’m sure Cook would be happy to send up tea and any light refreshments you might like. Is there anything else you desire?”
“Oh, no. This is all fine.” Anna clasped her hands before her and tried not to look overwhelmed.
“No? Well, do let me know if you need more paper, or anything else for that matter.” Mr. Hopple smiled and shut the door behind him.
She sat at the elegant little desk and reverently ran a finger over the polished inlay. Such a pretty piece of furniture. She sighed and picked up the first page of the earl’s manuscript. A bold hand, heavily slanted to the right, covered the page. Here and there, sentences were scratched out and alternative ones scrawled along the margins with many arrows pointing to where they should go.
Anna began copying. Her own handwriting flowed small and neat. She paused now and again as she tried to decipher a word. The earl’s handwriting was truly atrocious. After a while, though, she began to get used to his looping Ys and dashed Rs.