Page 2 of Tangwystle
Snowflakes decorated his dark hair, and combined with the amused glint in his sapphire eyes, I suspected trouble. The cut of his shoulders was particularly nice, along with his square jaw.
But fawning over handsome men was dangerous. They almost always quickly proved themselves to be assholes, after all.
Grinning, while rubbing his hands together, the man conducted a similar appraising sweep. My black dress, stockings, and boots easily identified me as a servant.
“Is a woman usually left to answer the door?” he asked.
“Women can in fact answer doors,” I told the gentleman. No scavenger went around wearing a thick wool coat like he did.
“What about letting people in?” he asked, grinning. “Do women ever do that?”
“Blackwell Manor does not host visitors these days.”
“I am no visitor,” the man stated. “I’m Baz Coldwell. The master of Blackwell Manor.”
The house groaned.
Blackwell Manor was a monstrosity of a thing. All dark stone and airy, but cold, rooms.
I’d worked my ass off the past seven years scrubbing every inch of it. I’d grown vegetables out in the garden and then chopped them up in the kitchen. I’d aired out linen and washed dishes.
But this house was merely a roof over my head. It did not shake or rumble at my touch. At least I didn’t think so.
Upon the man’s words, something about the bolts and joints of the place lifted. It recognized the voice of its new owner—my new boss.
“Master Blackwell’s great-nephew inherited it,” I said, my hand still on the door as if I might shut it. Not that I could do so quickly. I’d have to scuffle against the giant, heavy door, pushing it closed with my whole body. But I admit I was tempted to give it a go.
Because in my mind it wasn’t a scavenger on the doorstep. It was a con man.
But Baz Coldwell laughed. It wasn’t haughty. Or hollow sounding. He rubbed his hands together, blowing against them. “I’m coming inside now.”
And just like that, he brushed past my shoulder. Allowing me a perfect view of the giant pile of bags he left on the front steps.
I supposed he believed it was my job to bring them in. Which, in all fairness, it was.
I lugged them in through the door while the man circled the giant foyer. Paintings hung along the walls, and upon first glance, all should be amazing. The ceilings were tall, and a dark staircase led upstairs. But there were several worn spots on the red carpet, and our breaths frosted the air.
“Why haven’t you lit a fire?” he asked, circling back to me.
I’d managed to pull in bags number six and seven out of about eighteen. Too much stuff. He owned way too much stuff.
“You are not Master Blackwell’s great-nephew.” I blew a strand of dark hair off my forehead and straightened up. I smoothed my skirt down, my pinafore missing. I hadn’t worn it in months.
“Former Master Blackwell. I heard the coroner ruled it as death by old age. Passed away in his sleep,” he said.
I had found the old man, shriveled up, his mouth hanging open. I’d sunk to the floor, not sad, but not relieved either. I knew what I had with Master Blackwell. Food, shelter, and an employer who did not treat his servants like mere concubines.
While meticulous about his tea, Master Blackwell never got handsy with me. And for that, I remained loyal. I didn’t just scrub the floors. I polished them. I grew his favorite vegetables in the garden, and I always ensured his bed linens were fresh.
Death came for the old man, and I was sorry to see him go. But also worried.
“No,” I told Baz Coldwell. His dark brows went up, but his face lit up. Like he was intrigued by how I spoke up to him.
He kept smiling. I noticed it immediately. Most likely because I knew it was the complete opposite of mine. One time I’d been asked by the butcher’s son if I’d share a lemon drop with him. He assumed I liked eating them because my lips appeared to be sucking on something sour.
“No?” Baz asked.
I wiped my hand down my skirt again. “I meant the great-nephew. You aren’t Master Blackwell’s great-nephew. He’s in his sixties.”
