Page 1 of Mending the Baron's Sins
Chapter 1
Lancashire, 1815
“Aye, it’s cold,” Orla muttered to herself as she stepped down from the carriage and onto the track road. She glanced back at the carriage, a dark and elegant structure, the wood ornately painted black with rich deep curtains shrouded across the windows. It seemed an omen to her mind, more like a funeral carriage than a coach to take a worker to their new home.
She turned her back on the carriage as the groom, George, took her bags from the back of the coach.
“You’re new to Ingleby then, miss?” George said with a heavy Lancashire accent.
“Aye, that’s right.” Orla’s Irish accent sounded strong in comparison. She smiled at him, wrapped her thick woolen shawl tighter around her shoulders, then shifted her focus to the hall before her.
In the autumn breeze and gray cloud, Ingleby Hall was a dark building indeed. Trees nearby shivered and waved their branches in the breeze, their copper and apricot tinged leaves flying off and whipping past her. She squinted and raised herhand to cover her brow, shielding her gaze from the onslaught of leaves.
“Ah, bracing here, lass,” George said beside her with a chuckle. “I would have thought Ireland was colder, though.”
“Manchester.”
“What?” he said distractedly, halting at her side as he waved at the carriage driver.
“I’m from Manchester. My parents are Irish,” she hurried to explain, glancing at the carriage. “Grand, eh? The grandest I have ever been in.”
“Well, from what I hear, they were eager to have you here, Miss.” George nodded and led the way up the track toward Ingelby Hall.
What is happening here? Why are they so eager to have me?
Orla kept the myriad of questions to herself as she looked at the hall. The wide building looked Tudor, or even Stuart in structure. The far left was made completely of redbrick, though the right side was made up of Tudor timber and white mottled walls. The lead-lined windows didn’t gleam in the gray light of the day but looked more like black abysses.
The formal garden on either side of the path she now walked down was scrubby, with no autumnal flowers, but only grey twigs, longing for the life that spring would bring again. She nearly slipped more than once on the damp gravel as she followed George toward the house.
The manor reminded her of a darkened heart. It was twisted, covered in shadows, and was repeatedly whipped by the autumnal leaves that flew past her in the wind. She shivered, holding her leather reticule close to her chest as she pulled the shawl tighter around her shoulders still. The nearer she got to the door, she lifted her bonnet from her head, desperate to take in the full height and scale of the building. Her long brown hair tried to escape its updo in the enthusiastic wind.
The door was opened by a man wearing a butler’s garb who beckoned George inside. She followed behind them, sharing a brief smile with the butler as she looked around the hall.
It was a vast entrance, more like an old great hall, once used for Tudor feasts and dancing, then an entrance at all. Portraits on the wall looked out at her with ancient, hooked noses, suspicion in their beady black eyes. Even the butler glanced at her more than once as he went to aid George with his bags.
“You are here at the bequest of Mr. Byrne?” the butler asked, scarcely looking at her as he spoke.
“Aye. Mr. Colm Byrne.” Her accent clearly startled him, for he glanced up from the bags as he made his way toward the stairs.
“He’ll be here to see you shortly.”
“Thank you.” She stepped forward as he left the room with George, looking around the hall a little more. Floorboards creaked above and she lifted her head to see a line of young maids, even younger than her, all lined up behind the balustrade on the landing. They were whispering and pointing down at her. When they saw she had seen them, they all promptly scurried away again, hiding behind nearby timber beams.
What a warm welcome.
She kept the thought to herself and stepped forward, eager to see her uncle.
She was here at Colm’s request. It was true, but not to attend to him. Her Uncle Colm was the surgeon to the master of the house, a man by the name of Horace Cotes, or Baron De Rees. She peered back and forth across the ancient paintings. Most of the characters within the frames bore Tudor and Stuart dress, but she was looking for a man in modern dress–a man who could be Baron De Rees.
A door banged somewhere in the distance. A voice raged and cursed so loudly that Orla flinched and turned around. There had to be a second set of stairs in the house, for she heard them creaking under someone’s racing feet. Through an open doorway a man appeared. He looked to be no more than thirty years old. He didn’t look at her at first, but continued to curse inwardly. When Orla stepped back, her foot tapping the floorboards beneath her, he snatched his head up.
His spine abruptly straightened, and his chin lifted. The cropped dark hair on his head was waxed to a perfect shine, and no crease of his suit jacket was out of place.
“You are the nurse, yes?” he said distractedly, moving right past her, though he clearly expected her to answer.
“Aye, I am.”
“Ha, good luck,” he muttered darkly, the sarcasm plain as day.
